IN    COLORS   OF   THE    WEST 


IN  COLORS 
OF  THE  WEST 


BY 

GLENN  WARD  DRESBACH 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyright,  1922, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


0C|1~76I°77 


TO  MARY 


Many  of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume  have  appeared 
in  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  The  Midland,  The  Smart  Set, 
Contemporary  Verse,  The  Measure,  All's  Well,  Everybody's, 
Romance,  The  Lyric  West,  Ainslees,  Munsey's,  and  Life  and 
the  author  thanks  them  for  permission  to  republish. 


CONTENTS 
IN  WESTERN  MOUNTAINS 

PAGE 

In  Western  Mountains 13 

SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

Broken  Music 19 

An  Old  Wood  in  Spring 20 

A  Road  Song 21 

A  Desert  Willow 22 

August  Noon 23 

The  Leaves  on  the  Scrub  Oak 24 

Mirage 25 

I  Gave  You  Moods 27 

I  Have  Always  Said  I  Would  Go 28 

An  Autumn  Wood 29 

Meadow  Brook 30 

Which  Shall  I  Pity  Most  Today 32 

Summer  to  Autumn 33 

An  Autumn  Road 34 

Wise  Gamblers 35 

The  Fruit  That  Grew  in  Eden 36 

OF  PLACES  AND  SEASONS 

In  the  Desert 39 

Desert  Shadow  Songs 42 

River  Songs 44 

In  an  Old  Woodland 46 

In  Porto  Bello  Bay 49 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

While  the  Pollen  Drifts 51 

The  Game — Panama 55 

The  Hill  Road 56 

While  the  Prairie  Whispers 57 

In  tiil-  Dark  of  the  Moon 59 

SONNETS 

A  Mountain  Lake 63 

The  Chronicle  of  Dust 64 

Hazy  Weather 65 

Frosty  Meadows 66 

Cutting  Weeds 67 

An  April  Moon 68 

Beauty  in  the  Ruins 69 

Moths  and  Lights 70 

The  Process 71 

VIGNETTES  FROM  LIFE 


The  Feel  of  Silk 

75 

The  Needle's  Eye 

77 

A    Deeper   Spring 

79 

New  Walls 

81 

Gifts    

83 

The  Crow's   Nest 

85 

LONGER  POEMS 

Wild  Apples 89 

A  Night  at  Taboga 101 

The  Wall  of  the  Stars 109 

The  Three  Days 115 


IN  WESTERN  MOUNTAINS 


IN  WESTERN  MOUNTAINS 
I 

He  stood  a  moment  at  the  edge 

Of  that  cliff,  looking  out  with  me 

Upon  great  valleys  ending  in  the  haze, 

And  mountains  that  from  hazes  drove  a  wedge 

Of  snow  in  skies  of  lapis  lazuli. 

Then  something  of  the  littleness  of  days 

His  life  could  span  came  to  him  dizzily 

And  he,  who  boasted  of  his  might  with  men, 

Turned  back  and  grasped  a  little  cedar  tree 

Nearby,  for  safety  and  he  shut  his  eyes, 

Shaken,  and  would  not  turn  to  look  again.  ... 

Back  from  that  cliff-edge  jutting  out  to  skies 

He  climbed  and  spoke  at  last  with  heavy  breath, 

"God,  what  a  place!     What  is  it?     Life  or  Death?' 

II 

Our  words  seemed  much  in  vain. 

How  many  Ages  helped  those  heights  attain 

Such  silence  in  the  sun, 

0  silent  One?  .  .  . 

He  threw  a  stone,  upon  the  crest, 
At  some  dwarfed  bush  he  made  his  mark. 
A  gray  bird  fluttered  from  her  nest 
With  startled  cries, 

13 


IN  WESTERN  MOUNTAINS 

A  lizard  from  the  sun  flashed  to  the  dark 
Of  veins  in  rock  then  turned  its  beady  eyes 
To  look  at  us  as  if  it  wondered  why 
A  fool  should  mar  such  comfort  near  the  sky. 

The  stone  was  cast  as  small  boys  throw 
White  pebbles  on  smooth  pools  as  if  to  see 
In  troubled  surface  where  faint  circles  go 
Some  action  that  to  alien  minds  may  show 
More  kinship  to  their  own  reality. 

Ill 

Faint  jingle  of  little  bells 

And  the  half-heard  shuffle  of  feet, 

High  up  on  the  mountain  side, 

Crept  down  through  the  waves  of  heat, 

And  a  gray  thread  wove  through  the  wide 

Tapestry  of  the  mountain  side. 

The  burro  train  came  down 

With  the  ores  men  take  apart 
As  the  treasure  they  love  the  best 

From  the  multitudinous  heart 
Of  mountain — but  all  I  could  see 
Was  a  gray  thread  through  a  tapestry. 

IV 

From  a  deep  couch  of  sun 
I  raised  myself  and,  blinking,  lay 
Watching  the  colors  melt  and  run 
From  golds  and  purples  to  the  wan 
Fantastic  streets  of  Babylon. 
Pale  flowers  in  hanging  gardens  swayed 
14 


IN  WESTERN  MOUNTAINS 

Out  to  a  haze  of  amethyst — 

Ah,  God,  what  vows  of  hearts  were  made? 

What  lips  were  kissed? 

Near  me  a  stir — and  one  by  one 

The  lizards  crept  back  to  the  sun. 

I  felt  a  sudden  touch 

Of  creeping  chill — 

A  lizard  crawled  upon  my  hand,  no  more 

Afraid  of  it  because  it  was  so  still 

And  warm  in  sun,  as  much 

A  part  of  things  as  stones  although  it  bore, 

Unknown  to  lizards,  power  to  crush  and  kill.  .  . 

What  warmth  and  power  am  I,  too,  resting  on! 
Be  kind,  0  Hand,  that  crushed  mad  Babylon! 


Up  there  I  wondered  if  but  yesterday 

I  cursed  the  little  things  that  barred  my  way 

To  quick  desires  .  .  . 

There,  through  years  of  fires 

From  summer  suns  and  ashes  blown 

From  burned-out  winter  moons,  that  cedar  clings 

To  sheer  rock — alone — 

Groping  here  with  a  root  and  there  with  one, 

Asserting  its  right  to  stand  up  in  the  sun 

Or  face  the  storm's  hurled  shock  .  .  . 

And,  since  it  was  not  left  to  grow  where  run 

Sweet  juices  of  rich  earth,  it  grows — in  rock! 


15 


SONGS  AND  LYRICS 


BROKEN  MUSIC 


There  come  so  many  strains  of  broken  music 
From  lives  that  dreamed  to  make  a  symphony, 

But  something  in  them  makes  my  heart  remember 
The  music  of  the  restless,  troubled  sea. 

There  come  to  me  so  many  half-heard  whispers 
From  loves  that  now  the  last  great  word  have  said, 

But  something  in  them  makes  my  heart  grow  troubled 
As  in  a  woodland  when  the  leaves  are  dead. 


19 


AN  OLD  WOOD  IN  SPRING 

The  wood  was  so  old  that  I  thought 
To  hear  it  saying  its  prayers 

In  its  aisles  like  cloisters  wrought, 
But  I  came  on  it,  unawares, 

Chuckling  like  old  men  mellow  grown 

Talking  of  Youth  on  a  hill  alone. 


20 


A  ROAD  SONG 

"Good  morning,"  I  said  to  the  woman, 

And  her  weary  voice  replied, 
"Good  morning,"  as  if  to  the  flowers 

In  the  basket  at  her  side — 
I  said  to  her,  "Sell  me  some  flowers." 

She  said,  "They're  for  one  who  died." 

And  I  met  a  small  boy  followed 

By  a  dog  that  seemed  content 
To  wag  his  tail  like  a  banner 

Wherever  the  small  boy  went. 
"Sell  me  the  dog?"  I  questioned. 

Said  the  boy,  "He's  not  worth  a  cent." 

And  far  on  the  road  this  morning 

If  any  one  may  try 
To  buy  my  dreams  I  will  answer, 

"There  were  things  I  could  not  buy." 
There's  a  wind  in  the  new  leaves  stirring, 

There's  a  call  and  a  faint  reply. 

And  out  on  the  road  that's  only 

A  road  because  men  went 
Over  a  path  so  often, 

If  any  one  comes  intent 
To  buy  my  dreams  I  will  answer, 

"To  you  they're  not  worth  a  cent!" 


21 


A  DESERT  WILLOW 

The  smallest  breeze  can  waken 

A  rapture  in  these  leaves, 
A  few  bright  raindrops  seem  a  shower, 

As  if  this  tree  believes 
So  much  in  things  it  wants  to  be 
It  works  its  will  mysteriously. 

And  here  no  brooklet's  mirror 

Can  show  the  tree  how  fair 
It  stands.     At  roots  the  hidden  waters 

Moisten  sands  and  there 
The  whispers  quicken  musically 
From  waters  dreaming  toward  the  sea. 

The  farthest  star  can  brighten 
These  branches,  half  a  moon 

Give  glory,  and  this  little  willow 
Makes  a  desert's  June — 

As  if  it  knew  such  things  should  be 

No  greater  than  its  imagery. 


22 


AUGUST  NOON 

Lost  fairy  ships  at  anchor 
On  streams  of  daytime  sleep 

Are  all  the  water-lilies 

Where  weary  waters  creep. 

Even  a  thrush  sits  silent 

Where  reeds  begin  to  die.  .  .  , 
A  hawk  seems  caged,  uncaring, 

In  one  hot  bit  of  sky. 

Oh,  what  has  gone  from  summer 
Here  where  I  walk  alone?   .  .  , 

Something  that  goes  from  loving 
When  all  of  Love  is  known. 


23 


THE  LEAVES  ON  THE  SCRUB  OAK 

The  leaves  on  the  scrub  oak  are  dying 

And  flocks  of  birds  are  flying  farther  south. 

A  purple  haze  is  heavy  in  the  distance  .  .  . 

The  frost  will  kill  what  lasts  beyond  the  drouth. 

So  many  words  were  said,  yet  still  unanswered 
Are  all  the  deeper  questions — put  aside — 

How  fit  it  is  that  in  this  weary  season 

My  dreams  have  flown  from  you,  my  love  has  died! 

I  shall  not  stay  to  hear  the  oak  leaves  rattle 
Across  the  gray  sand — reaches  now  so  dry — 

Ah,  I  shall  turn  to  you  and  break  my  silence 
With  futile  words,  and  smile  and  say  good-by. 


24 


MIRAGE 

Above  the  heat-waves  breaking 
On  hazy  shores  that  seem 

To  grow  from  faded  purple 
And  golds  all  spent  of  gleam 
Is  spread  a  desert's  dream. 

Above  the  sands  and  ridges 
Barren  and  hard  and  dry, 

A  haunting  beauty  fashions 
Its  magic  in  the  sky 
Where  no  birds  now  go  by. 

A  little  lake  is  rippled 

By  winds  not  reaching  here, 

And  trees  of  slender  beauty 
On  low  shores  linger  near 
The  waters  strangely  clear  . 

Unreal,  a  thing  of  vision, 
Empty  as  is  the  air! 

Beauty  bred  of  delusion, 
Mirage,  but  oh,  how  fair 
Above  sands  old  and  bare! 

Above  the  barren  places 

Of  days  when  nothing  seems 

Sure  of  the  quest  it  follows — 
Of  far-off  trees  and  streams 
Send  Mirage,  0  my  Dreams! 
25 


I  GAVE  YOU  MOODS 

I  gave  you  moods  of  white  sails  passing 

From  vision  on  a  lonely  sea — 
Then,  touched  with  longing  for  a  moment, 

Your  hands  reached  out  and  clung  to  me. 
Can  you  be  content  with  nearness 

When  the  distance  still  must  be?  ... 

I  gave  you  whispers  from  the  longing 

Of  the  winds  in  desert  lands, 
Then,  afraid  of  something  spoken 

Over  shadow-patterned  sands, 
How  you  groped  to  me  in  twilight 

With  your  ineffectual  hands! 

I  gave  you  songs  of  mountain  waters, 
Of  moonlight  on  an  empty  plain, 

Of  rain  on  roofs  forever  haunted, 
Of  undersongs  in  driven  rain — 

Your  eyes  grew  troubled  and,  in  silence 
You  crept  into  my  arms  again. 


26 


I  HAVE  ALWAYS  SAID  I  WOULD  GO 

I  have  always  said  I  would  go  sometime  in  the  autumn 
Away  from  the  bare  boughs  and  the  fallen  leaves, 

Away  from  the  lonely  sounds  and  the  faded  colors, 
And  all  the  ancient  sorrow,  and  change  that  grieves. 

I  have  always  said  I  would  go — and  now  it's  autumn — 
To  an  island  where  the  wild  hibiscus  grows 

And  parakeets  flock  to  the  groves  at  twilight 

And  fragrance  drifts  from  bays  where  moonlight  glows. 

But  there  would  be  the  vasty  sound  of  breakers 
Come  in  to  toss  their  pearls  upon  the  sand. 

All  through  the  night — a  longing  of  great  waters 
Trying  to  make  the  vastness  understand. 

I  have  always  said  I  would  go  sometime  in  the  autumn 
Away  from  the  lonely  sounds  and  change  that  grieves — 

But  here  in  my  heart  is  the  sound  of  a  distant  ocean 

And  here  in  my  heart  is  the  sound  of  these  falling  leaves. 


27 


AN  AUTUMN  WOOD 

An  autumn  wood  upon  a  hill 

Against  the  sunset  stands  so  still 

In  distance  that  I  only  guess 

How  leaves  drift  down  and  softly  press 

Against  the  fragrant  earth  in  sleep, 

How  voices  of  the  wood  grow  deep 

With  some  new  meaning  in  that  flare 

Of  beauty  fading,  drifting  there. 

The  mingled  golds  and  crimsons  run 

From  woodland  into  setting  sun. 

The  wood's  hazed  grays  and  jaspers  fuse 

With  sunset's  vaster  pinks  and  blues. 

A  gold  leaf  blown  a  little  way 

Sees  gold  cloud-ships  drift  down  a  bay 

Of  rainbow  fires  that  very  soon 

Will  turn  to  pale  seas  of  the  moon — 

And  past  cloud-ships  with  ghostly  spars 

The  frosted  spray  will  turn  to  stars  .  .  . 

Oh,  could  I  meet  death  so  at  last 

With  beauty  answering  a  vast 

Of  beauty,  I  would  then  be  still 

In  autumn  wood  upon  a  hill. 


28 


MEADOW  BROOK 

Sway  of  the  young  corn  growing,  growing, 

Smell  of  the  wind  from  the  pastures  blowing, 

Then  willows  listening  to  a  song 

Of  a  meadow  brook  between  them  flowing! 

I  shall  not  stay  to  listen  long 

For  fear  I  get  the  wistful  air 

Of  willows  listening,  and  care 

Too  much  for  what  the  brook  is  saying 

Down  through  water-lilies  playing 

Like  fairies  dangling  pearly  toes 

While  the  water  comes  and  goes. 

I  shall  turn  and  look  on  grasses 

Swaying  in  the  wind,  and  trees, 

Stones  and  grains,  for  soon  with  these, 

While  the  water  sings  and  passes, 

I  shall  always  have  to  stay — 

No  matter  what  the  brook  would  say  .  .  . 

Why  do  I  still  linger,  waiting, 

Touching  fingers  with  the  brook, 

Looking  as  the  willows  look — 

While  the  water  through  my  fingers 

Gleams  and  slips  away? 


29 


WHICH  SHALL  I  PITY  MOST  TO-DAY 

Which  shall  I  pity  most  to-day 

Of  olden  April  loves? 
The  one  I  saw  go  out  to  feed 

A  flock  of  snowy  doves 
Beyond  her  lonely  garden-place 
With  but  lost  Aprils  in  her  face? 

Or  shall  I  pity  most  the  one 

I  met  where  crowds  went  by, 
With  flash  of  gems  upon  her  breast 

And  winter  in  her  eye, 
And  Master  Poodle  walking,  proud 
In  place  of  Love,  through  April's  crowd? 

Or  shall  I  pity  most  the  dear, 

Strange  one  who  went  with  Death, 

To  lose  the  earth-born  rapture  gone 
As  in  a  rose's  breath?  .  .  . 

That  body  gone  to  dust  again 

Answer  with  violets  the  rain. 


30 


SUMMER  TO  AUTUMN 

My  leaves  of  green  you  will  turn  to  gold  and  crimson, 
My  ripened  fruits  you  will  give  their  fullest  hue, 

And  my  scattered  birds  will  flock  to  you  at  parting — 
But  all  I  give  in  turn  will  be  taken  from  you. 

Your  gold  and  crimson  leaves  will  be  banners  fallen, 
Your  flushed  fruits  will  be  scattered  on  the  ground, 

And,  at  the  last,  the  birds  will  hasten  southward 
And  leave  you  winds  and  many  a  lonely  sound. 

We  dream  the  dream  and  never  reach  completion 
Within  ourselves,  then  pass  in  things  we  give  .  .  . 

Always  the  void  of  winter  wraps  in  silence 
Things  that  in  spite  of  winter  wait  and  live. 


31 


AN  AUTUMN  ROAD 

Down  a  hill,  then  up  a  hill 
And  then  a  vast  of  sea! 

A  wedge  of  wild  geese  crying 
Passes  over  me — 

And  now  my  dreams  are  flying 
Where  I  may  never  be.  .  .  . 

Down  a  hill  and  up  a  hill, 
Then  level  lands  again! 

Far  off  the  sea  is  speaking 
A  longing  that  is  pain — 

My  eyes  are  weary  seeking 
For  my  lost  ship  from  Spain. 

Down  a  hill  and  up  a  hill, 

Oh,  so  long  ago, 
There  was  a  princess  singing — 

Where,  I  do  not  know.  .  . 
There  were  arms  that,  clinging, 

Would  not  let  me  go. 


32 


WISE  GAMBLERS 

Four  old  trees  stand  tall  on  a  hill. 
Wind  swirls  around  them,  never  still, 
And  their  heads  together  bow  and  sway 
As  if  in  talk  of  a  game  they  play. 
Sometimes  they  laugh  and  sometimes  sigh, 
And  there  beneath  a  low  gray  sky 
I've  seen  them  drop  their  leaves  when  thins 
The  gold  and  crimson,  as  near  dawn 
Wise  gamblers  drop  their  cards  upon 
The  table,  saying  kindly,  "Why 
Quarrel  with  a  game  that  no  one  wins!" 


33 


THE  FRUIT  THAT  GREW  IN  EDEN 

The  fruit  that  grew  in  Eden 

A  later  time  may  be 
The  sorrow  of  a  dreamer 

Who  bowed  on  Calvary. 
For  trees  that  grew  in  Eden 

He  bowed  beneath  a  tree.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  build  an  Eden 
Of  such  long-rotted  leaves, 

I  cannot  dream  the  beauty 
Of  faith  that  yet  believes 

In  hands  that  thrust  the  lances 
In  One  between  the  thieves. 

I  build  a  place  of  fancy 

Of  such  things  as  I  see, 
I  keep  a  faith  in  something 

Till  it  has  lied  to  me — 
The  thing  that  vanquished  Eden 

Wears  down  bare  Calvary. 


34 


OF  PLACES  AND  SEASONS 


IN  THE  DESERT 

I 

Tumults  of  silence  thunder  in  my  ears. 

What  land  is  this  with  such  immensity, 
Which  keeps  lost  glory-cities  in  its  skies 

Half  seen  through  heat-waves  surging  dizzily? 

Here  are  the  Hanging  Gardens  in  their  bloom, 
And  here  the  domes  of  Nineveh  and  Tyre, 

And  in  this  cloud  above  the  glare  of  sands 
Is  Rome  that  sends  its  glory  up  in  fire. 

My  eyes  ache  and  I  turn  them  to  the  ground. 

Here  is  a  busy  ant  hill  at  my  feet; 
The  ants  have  worn  thin  trails  through  burning  sand  .  . 

They  bring  their  bits  of  green  things  through  the  heat. 

And  Time  that  trod  the  olden  cities  down 

And  scattered  stones  turned  dust  with  dust  of  kings, 

May  send  a  careless  foot  to  ant  hills  here 
And  crush  the  work  even  of  humble  things. 

II 

There's  no  hiding  here  in  the  glare  of  the  desert — 
If  your  coat  is  sham  the  sun  shines  through  .  .  . 

Here  with  the  lovely  things  and  the  silence 
There  is  no  crowd  for  saving  you. 
37 


IN  THE  DESERT 

When  hearts  love  here  the  love  lasts  longer, 

And  hate  here  leaves  a  heavy  scar. 
But  we,  with  the  desert's  beauty  of  distance, 

Are  always  dreaming  of  places  far. 

The  tropic  seas  and  the  throb  of  cities, 

And  harbors  filled  with  the  ships  we  knew. 

We  keep,  with  the  sun  and  the  stars  and  silence, 
Life — and  a  promise  glimmers  through. 

If  you  have  come  to  start  a  kingdom — 
Our  eyes  looked  on  Rome  and  Tyre. 

But  if  you  come  with  dreams  for  baggage 
Sit  with  us  by  the  cedar  fire! 

Ill 

When  first  the  love-moon  rose  above  the  desert 
Lifted  from  the  slime  of  slow-drained  inland  seas, 

What  shape  first  moved  from  hillsides  to  the  magic 
Of  strange  lands  whispering  in  symphonies? 

Was  it  a  cave-man  hungering  for  beauty, 

Wanting  his  mate?     And  did  he  find  her  soon? 

Or  was  it  but  a  wolf  that  sitting  fearless 

Cried  out  a  world-old  longing  to  the  moon? 

IV 

Some  day  a  river  may  be  put  in  chains, 

And  held  from  rendezvous  with  passionate  seas, 

To  fill  these  lands  with  sounds  of  dancing  rains 
And  songs  of  ripening  grain  and  flowering  trees. 


38 


IN  THE  DESERT 

And  homes  may  scatter  on  these  sunbaked  sands 
Where  now  long  purple  shadows  spread  and  fill 

Strange  empty  places  .  .  .  One  with  empty  hands 
May  stand  here  then  and  see  a  desert  still. 

And  one  with  heart  where  Love  has  sent  no  stream 
Of  starlight,  in  some  house  built  then,  may  bow 

Before  long  purple  shadows,  lost  in  dream, 
Even  as  I  do  now! 

V 

In  the  hills  to  the  north  of  the  desert 

A  little  river  flows, 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  desert 

No  one  sees  where  it  goes — 
It  creeps  into  sands  and  passes 

From  places  sunlight  knows. 

The  fevered  skies  of  the  desert 

Would  drain  it  thirstily 
If  it  stayed  for  a  year  of  splendor 

Where  ages  still  must  be — 
But  alone  it  creeps  to  the  darkness 

To  find  the  light  of  the  sea. 


39 


DESERT  SHADOW  SONGS 
I 

The  shadow  of  a  cloud  moves  on  the  grass 

Parched  with  the  fever  of  the  thirsting  day, 

A  filmy  coolness  drifted  from  afar 

And  drifted  soon  away — 

Promise  of  rain  that  fails,  how  soon  to  pass 

Where  deeper  shadows  are. 

So  on  my  brow  what  shadow-hands  have  passed 

And  left  an  olden  fever  to  the  last.  .  .  . 

O  land  of  hot  winds  and  dwarfed,  wistful  tree 
And  all  veiled  mysteries  of  amethyst  and  blue, 
My  shadow  falls  on  you, 
Your  shadows  fall  on  me. 

II 

I  would  not  have  my  Love  be  here 

In  shadowed  silence  lest  she  see 
My  shadow  more  than  me  and  fear 

Within  my  arms  again  to  be — 
For  fear  her  son  and  mine  at  birth 

Would  keep  such  shadows  in  his  eyes, 
Too  much  a  part  of  long  gray  earth, 

0  God,  too  hurt,  too  quickly  wise! 
40 


DESERT  SHADOW  SONGS 


III 

Across  the  heated  level  of  the  sand 

Pale  shadows  reach  from  jutting  hills 

To  touch  the  trees  in  narrow  valley  land, 

As  I  have  seen 

The  thin  white  hands  at  grimy  window  sills 

Reach  out  to  touch  some  precious  sprig  of  green 

As  if  the  sight  of  it  was  not  enough — 

It  was  so  full  of  magic  stuff — 

And  only  touch  could  understand. 

IV 

A  trickle  of  water  goes  between 
Gnashed  ridges,  in  a  sandy  bed 
Wide  as  a  river  might  have  been.  .  .  . 
What  waters  down  this  course  had  sped 
To  distance  (and  how  long  ago!) 
That  this  thin  stream  a  lure  might  know 
Out  to  that  vast  of  shadow-sea 
Waving  in  hazes  mockingly. 

So  from  what  springs  in  me  must  creep 
What  streams  unto  what  phantom-deep! 


41 


RIVER  SONGS 
I 

Here,  where  the  wide,  slow-moving  river 

Shines  through  the  willows  winds  make  songs  about, 
I  hear  faint  music  moving  on  the  waters 

Close  to  the  shore,  with  silence  farther  out. 

I  feel  there  is  a  deep  orchestral  music 

In  that  wide  brightness  always  surely  bound 

Upon  its  journey — as  when  in  the  starlight 
I  feel  star-rhythms,  miss  celestial  sound. 

Of  all  great  things  and  lovely  moving  onward, 
Rivers  and  dreams  that  ages  long  may  love, 

I  tell  my  heart  and  yet  it  still  must  wonder 

How  great  the  urge,  how  faint  the  songs  thereof! 

II 

Who  knows  this  river's  longing  for  the  sea? 

What  proud  ships  and  what  drifting  wrecks  it  bore? 
It  sings  not  of  its  fevered  days  of  drouth 

Or  floods  whose  scars  are  gray  upon  the  shore. 

Yet  had  you  seen  the  narrow  waters  crawl 

Between  the  sand-bars  when  the  drouth  was  here, 

Then  you  would  know — and  had  you  seen  the  floods 

Rip  down  this  channel  you  would  think  of  fear. 

42 


RIVER  SONGS 

Who  knows  my  longing?     Who  would  care  to  know? 

What  of  the  drouth-times  and  the  times  of  love? 
I  know  not  all  myself — but  I  may  know 

How  great  the  urge,  how  faint  the  songs  thereof! 


43 


IN  AN  OLD  WOODLAND 


Once  I  walked  this  woodland  in  the  springtime 

And  the  musk  of  grasses  drifted  on  the  air; 
Scents  of  early  flowers  and  a  dewy  freshness 

Of  the  leaves  then  met  me  roaming  everywhere  .  .  . 

Beauty-haunted,  passion-wakened, 
Then  I  looked  into  my  heart  and  found  old  longing  there. 

Longing  that  must  linger  when  the  slender  beauty 
And  the  lure  of  passion  in  things  no  hands  may  hold 

Lift  from  earth  that,  too,  is  in  the  body, 

Here  I  felt  in  springtime  .  .  .  Now  the  leaves  are  gold. 
Wistful-voiced  and  music-haunted 

Winds  and  trees  have  whispered  things  a  springtime  left  un- 
told. 

Once  I  walked  this  woodland  in  the  springtime, 

Looked  through  it  to  distance  smiling  in  the  sky  .  .  . 

Everything  seemed  happy,  sure  of  fair  completion — 
Not  a  single  bloom  or  leaf  but  had  more  joy  than  I. 
Love-awakened,  beauty-chastened, 

Now  I  hold  you  close  and  tell  of  love  that  shall  not  die! 

Now  I  know  what  thrushes  in  this  woodland 

Sajig  above  the  whispers  of  the  leaves  that  stirred, 

Now,  when  leaves  are  dying  and  the  blooms  are  faded, 

Leaves  and  blooms  are  in  my  heart  grown  wise  as  any  bird. 

44 


IN  AN  OLD  WOODLAND 

Lyric-throated,  fearless-eyed, 
Love  has  spoken  something  now  that  only  gods  have  heard! 

II 

I  am  one  who  has  seen 

The  leaves  dying,  the  leaves  falling  .  .  . 

In  the  nights  I  have  heard 

The  trees  sighing,  the  winds  calling  .  .  , 

I  know  my  life  must  be 

Kin  to  the  life  of  a  tree. 

I  know  my  dreams  of  green 

And  silver,  quickly  stirred, 

Must  fall  as  leaves. 

I  know  not  how  .  .  . 

I  am  young  now, 

But  in  my  youth  there  is  an  age  that  grieves — 

I  am  one  who  has  seen 

The  leaves  falling,  the  leaves  blowing  .  .  . 

What  after  Love  and  Dream? 

Nothing  worth  knowing — 

Save  my  strength  from  the  grass, 

Greeting  new  loves  and  dreams  that  pass, 

In  tingling  roots  and  flowers  growing. 


Ill 

Restless,  through  the  woodland  where  the  breath  of  summer 
Left  a  passing  fragrance,  with  the  winds  we  go 
Haunted  by  the  whispers 
Of  a  glory  fading, 
Seeking  for  an  answer  we  may  never  know, 
Fever-eyed  and  wistful-hearted  in  the  afterglow.  .  .  . 

45 


IN  AN  OLD  WOODLAND 

Passing  where  my  love-songs  in  violets  were  written, 
Where  your  youthful  passion,  with  unbroken  will, 
Silver  leaves  had  spoken 
With  an  olden  music, 
Now  we  find  the  violets  gone,  and  leaves  are  never  still — 
Broken  music,  beauty-haunted,  whispers  on  the  hill. 

Lingering  in  the  woodland  where  the  gold  is  fading, 

Where  the  leaves  are  dancing,  in  death,  to  wind's  commands, 
Lift  your  eyes,  Beloved, 
That  the  skies  be  brighter, 
Laugh  again,  that  music  thrill  these  stricken  lands — 
Why  this  silent  groping  and  these  clinging  hands? 


46 


IN  PORTO  BELLO  BAY 

The  ghost-ships  waken  with  the  moon 

In  Porto  Bello  Bay, 
And  many  an  olden  pirate  tune, 
Still  drunken  with  remembered  June, 

Trails  through  the  mist  away. 
The  sails  are  spread,  the  faint  lights  gleam, 

The  ships  move  to  the  seas 
As  if  they  seek  the  ports  of  dream 

Beyond  the  Caribbees. 

The  moon  has  spilled  upon  the  bay 

Her  cup  of  silver  wine. 
The  galleons  turn  against  the  tide 
Their  shadow-prows;  their  ancient  pride 

Speaks  in  each  shadow-line. 
The  glamor  of  their  time  returns; 

Purged  of  their  sin  they  seem — 
Each  seeks  the  port  for  which  it  yearns, 

Borne  on  the  winds  of  dream. 

And  in  the  hold  of  each  is  gold 

And  down  in  every  one 
Are  gems  that  came  from  jungles  deep 
Where  flowers  flame  and  ages  keep 

The  rituals  of  the  sun. 
And  every  sailor-shape  that  stirs 

Looks  yearning  out  to  sea 
Beyond  the  mist,  and  no  mist  blurs 

His  eyes  of  memory. 
47 


IN  PORTO  BELLO  BAY 


One  sees  a  running  girl  come  down 

A  street  where  flowers  grow, 
One  sees  a  little  laughing  lad, 
In  colors  of  the  rainbow  clad, 

Wave  welcome,  all  aglow. 
All  see  the  gladness  they  had  seen 

Before  there  came  a  day 
When  anchors  held  from  what  had  been- 

In  Porto  Bello  Bay.  .  .  . 

Before  the  moon  creeps  down  to  sleep 

She  calls  the  ghost-ships  home 
To  harbors  deep  the  years  have  made 
Of  purple  silence  and  of  jade 

And  flecks  of  silver  foam, 
And  with  their  memories  they  ride 

The  daylight  hours  away, 
Unseen,  unmoved  by  any  tide, 

In  Porto  Bello  Bay. 


48 


WHILE  THE  POLLEN  DRIFTS 

I 

A  bee  has  groped  from  the  heart  of  a  flower. 

The  bloom  is  faded,  the  sweets  are  thinned, 
But  the  bee  is  drunk  with  its  wine  and  passion 

And  his  wings  move  dreamily  on  the  wind. 

His  wings  are  laden  with  dust  that's  golden, 
And  so,  unknowing,  he  plays  a  part — 

For  his  want  helps  work  the  will  of  the  pollen 
As  he  creeps  to  another  flower's  heart. 

There  is  a  power  luring  and  urging 

All  through  the  dream  and  growth  of  things 

There's  failure  and  fading— and  still  a  glory 
Dusting  its  pollen  on  restless  wings. 

II 

Old  Simon's  drunk  on  cider. 

He's  buzzing  like  the  bees, 
Swaying  down  into  the  town 

Grinning  at  the  trees — 

Caring  not  who  sees. 

For  hours  he  was  sitting 

Beside  the  cider  mill — 
Tried  to  sleep,  then  had  to  weep 
49 


WHILE  THE  POLLEN  DRIFTS 

Much  against  his  will, 
On  the  swaying  hill. 

He  felt  the  Autumn  turning 

Her  saddened  eyes  his  way  .  .  . 

Alone  and  old  and  strangely  cold 
He  had  no  words  to  say — 
Ragged  now  and  gray. 

Now  Simon's  drunk  on  cider, 

As  busy  as  a  bee — 
He'll  tell  in  town  how  he  marched  down 

With  Sherman  to  the  sea, 

And  so  made  men  be  free. 

Ill 

Old  Miranda  sees  him 

Swaying  into  town — 
Poor  gray  ancient  lover 

Silly  as  a  clown, 
Turned  away  because  she  thought 

Jason  wore  a  crown. 

Old  Miranda  snivels, 

Lonely  as  can  be. 
Watching  Simon  passing 

Bowing  to  each  tree, 
Longs  to  give  a  home  to  him, 

And  end  their  misery. 

Pollen,  drifting,  drifting, 
Lost  on  barren  ground! 
Old  Miranda  shivers 
50 


WHILE  THE  POLLEN  DRIFTS 

Looking  all  around  .  .  . 
Faded  asters  in  the  wind 
Make  a  ghostly  sound. 

IV 

There'll  be  a  moon  to-night 
And  winds  across  the  grass 

And  many  crickets  chirping  shrill 
Along  the  way  we  pass. 

And  where  the  pollen  went 

All   day  we  may  not  know — 

For  there  will  be  our  clinging  arms  .  . 
We  shall  not  turn  and  go! 

We  shall  not  look  again 

Into  each  other's  eyes 
As  often  we  have  looked  before 

With  an  alert  surprise. 


I  come  from  the  fields  and  wooded  places 

And  roads  that  started  where  dawn  began, 
And  ended  in  colors  that  left  but  traces 

Where  molten  golds  of  sunset  ran  .  .  . 
And  I  have  looked  in  the  quiet  faces 
Of  flowers,  when  summer  was  nearly  done, 
Lifting  still  in  the  wind  and  the  sun  .  .  . 
There  are  many  words  that  I  would  say 
But  only  these  shall  I  speak  to-day — 
Here  in  the  twilight  under  the  eaves: 
When  shadows  were  longer  and  pastures  shorn, 
And  corn-stalks  were  stronger  to  hold  the  corn, 
51 


WHILE  THE  POLLEN  DRIFTS 

And  Beauty  was  hardened  and  colors  were  thinned 
And  blooms  were  worn,  and  dulled  were  the  leaves, 
I  have  seen  the  pollen  drift  on  the  wind — 
And  kept  a  thought  that  my  heart  believes! 


52 


THE  GAME-PANAMA 

"Senor,  you  win — but  we  have  broken  laws 

Of  this  fair  city  by  the  sea, 

And  since  you  win  it's  fair  you  lose  because 

I,  as  a  guardian  of  the  Law,  must  be 

No  longer  gamester  but  Alcalde  sworn 

To  duty  .  .  .  Let  me  see,  Senor — 

A  thousand  pesos!     It  had  seemed  much  more 

Piled  on  the  table  there  across  from  me — 

And  gaming  time  so  near  the  smile  of  Morn! 

You  are  a  stranger  here,  you  say, 

And  I  shall  be  as  lenient  as  I  may — 

A  thousand  pesos — that  your  fine  will  be!" 

"But,  say — Alcalde — you  invited  me — 

And  you  have  broken,  too, 

The  rules  of  this  your  city  .  .  .  Who  will  place 

A  fine  on  you?" 

"Ah,  there  are  gowns  of  lace 
And  silk  that  I  must  buy  to  win  her  smile, 
And  little  silver  slippers  for  the  dance, 
And  rings  that  she'll  grow  tired  of  afterwhile  .  . 
She'll  stab  my  heart  with  coldness  of  her  glance! 
It's  all  a  game,  Senor  .  .  .  Your  fine 
Is  easy  since  it  is  so  quickly  made, 
But  mine,  ah,  mine 
How  long  it  must  be  paid!" 


53 


THE  HILL  ROAD 

"Ah,  Senorita,  tell  me  where  you  go 
With  orchid  and  hibiscus  in  your  hand 
And  all  the  morning  in  your  face  aglow." 

"Senor,  I  go 

Along  this  path  to  that  hushed  bit  of  land 
Where  is  my  first  love's  grave,  and  flowers  grow 
By  trees  that  stir  with  winds  strayed  in  from  sea 
And  in  the  winds  the  sweet  lush  grasses  blow 
Their  whispers  gracefully." 

"But  why  your  smiles  and  flowers  in  your  hair?" 
"But,  ah,  Senor,  another  lover  there 
Waits  now  to  weep  with  me!" 


54 


WHILE  THE  PRAIRIE  WHISPERS 
I 

The  maple  leaves  are  golden; 

They  are  falling  one  by  one, 
And  down  blue-misted  hollows 
There  is  the  flight  of  swallows 

Glinting  toward  the  sun. 

Along  the  lane  where  wild  grapes 
Hang  purple  in  the  morn, 

A  farmer  asks  his  neighbor 

Upon  their  way  to  labor, 
"What's  the  price  of  corn?" 

And  leaves  about  me  whisper, 
"The  price  one  has  to  pay!" 
And  winds  toss  leaves  asunder 
Down  lanes  I  walk  and  wonder 
The  price  of  dreams  to-day. 

II 

Her  white  dress  glimmered  in  the  rising  moon  . 
The  orchard  wall  seemed  very  cruel  and  cold 
As  she  leaned  there  one  lonely  night  in  June — 
Sixteen  years  old! 

55 


WHILE  THE  PRAIRIE  WHISPERS 

She  dreamed  of  cities  that  she  had  not  seen 

And  had  them  rather  changed  from  what  they  are, 
Until  she  thought  she  hated  shadowy  green 
And  staring  star. 

Then  suddenly  the  cities  faded  out — 

It  was  not  them  she  wanted  after  all  .  .  . 
Her  first  real  lover,  coming  as  in  doubt, 
Paused  at  the  wall. 

The  boldness  of  her  dreams  so  quickly  dead, 

She  lost  the  glamour  of  the  things  she  knew 
In  cities  far.  .  .  .  She  blushed  a  bit,  and  said, 
Why,  howdy  do!" 


56 


IN  THE  DARK  OF  THE  MOON 

I 

They  said,  "Death  is  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting, 
A  rest  and  dream  after  Life's  songs  and  sighs." 

I  only  know  Death  touched  her  lips  to  silence 
And  took  sunlight  and  starlight  from  her  eyes. 

I  only  know  Death  chilled  her  lovely  body, 
And  that  we  laid  it  in  the  earth  one  day. 

Was  that  the  end?     Only  dreams  hear  her  singing, 
Only  dreams  hear  her  footsteps  far  away. 

Oh,  once  I  felt  that  I  had  learned  the  secret — 
A  rose  grew  from  the  earth  where  she  was  laid, 

And  in  the  dark  I  knew  it  by  its  fragrance — 

Strange  longings  and  old  dreams  within  me  strayed. 

But  now  the  rose  has  died.     The  spell  is  broken. 

To-night  the  sky,  without  a  moon,  is  blind   .   .  . 
Only  the  tall  soft  grasses  nod  and  whisper, 

Whisper  and  nod  here  in  the  restless  wind. 

II 

The  road  is  dark.     No  hills,  no  trees 
Lift  from  the  levels  of  the  dark. 
The  high  things  and  the  low  things  are 
As  one,  and  each  familiar  mark 
57 


IN  THE  DARK  OF  THE  MOON 

That  I  have  known  to  guide  my  way 
Is  hidden.     I  alone  remain 
Upon  the  road,  and  shall  not  stay 
To  meet  the  coming  dash  of  rain.  .  .  . 
But  do  I  move,  or  docs  my  will, 
Heavy  with  dark  and  mysteries 
Stand  leveled  with  the  hills  and  trees, 
While  Darkness  moves  and  I  am  still? 

Ill 

To-night  in  cities  glare  the  lights — 
There  morning  comes  too  soon. 

The  people  there  at  work  or  play 
Forget  about  the  moon! 

Oh,  I  shall  leave  these  desert  hills 
Where  darkness  levels  things, 

And  walk  again  the  streets  and  give 
My  heart  some  tinsel  wings. 

And  I  shall  look  in  lovely  eyes, 
And  dance  to  many  a  tune — - 

Till  on  a  night  my  heart  shall  ache 
For  silence  and  the  moon! 


58 


SONNETS 


A  MOUNTAIN  LAKE 

Mirror  of  skies  whose  cloud-ships  on  your  breast 

Arrive  at  havens  of  the  mirrored  trees, 

About  you  lift  the  splendors  of  the  West, 

Across  you  move  the  olden  mysteries 

Of  light  and  shadow.     Fed  by  melted  snows 

Forever  flashing  on  the  changeless  range 

Haloed  by  fleecy  clouds,  you  find  repose 

In  beauty  living  changeless  through  the  change 

Of  seasons  and  of  ages.     One  by  one 

They  see  reflected  growth  and  slow  decline 

Upon  your  surface,  chronicles  of  sun, 

Of  shadow  and  of  moon.     Cedar  and  pine 

And  mountain  flower  look  on  you  as  I — 

Meeting  in  you  at  last  with  peaks  and  sky. 


61 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  DUST 

There  is  a  chronicle  of  dust  that  keeps 

Such  things  as  often  crowded  day  forgets — 

Here  is  a  page  written  in  violets, 

And  here  a  page  where  the  arbutus  creeps. 

Out  of  long  silence  and  the  hidden  deeps 

What  love,  what  beauty,  without  vain  regrets, 

Lifts  to  the  spring  again  when  dust  begets 

New  forms  for  them  while  earth  their  magic  reaps? 

Such  love  as  gave  new  meaning  to  the  moon, 
Such  beauty  as  made  spring  come  back  again! 
They  are  not  lost  in  the  tempestuous  years.  .  .  . 
0  dust,  that  saves  to  give  immortal  June, 
What  fragrances  from  Heloise  remain? 
And  to  what  glory  blossomed  Juliet's  tears? 


62 


HAZY  WEATHER 

The  circle  is  contracted  and  the  sky 
Draws  down  to  earth.     Far  hills  are  shut  away 
In  hazy  silence  and  the  dried  leaves  play 
A  restless  melody  as  winds  go  by. 
A  smoky  fragrance  drifts,  as  if  the  dry 
And  broken  blooms  of  summer  on  this  day 
Again  have  flamed — but  now  on  pyres  grown  gray- 
To  speak  in  perfumes  till  they,  too,  must  die. 

What  shall  the  spring  remember  of  this  time, 
When  from  the  earth  the  offspring  of  these  blooms 
Lift  to  the  dancing  magic  of  the  rain? 
Bright  leaves  once  more  will  scrawl  a  silver  rhyme 
Upon  blue  distance — while  from  hidden  tombs 
Come  lives  I  live  again  and  yet  again! 


63 


FROSTY  MEADOWS 

For  me,  there  is  a  mood  of  friendliness 

In  frosty  meadows  in  the  early  sun. 

The  sense  of  things  frost-killed  cannot  repress 

An  exultation  that  awakes  to  run 

Along  still  brightness  spreading  out  for  me 

Like  softly  fallen  dust  of  stars,  akin 

Somehow  to  magic  on  a  morning  sea 

Or  distances  from  hills  when  mists  grow  thin. 

So  it  may  be  when  I  look  out  across 
Death-widened  distance  and  may  see  no  more 
Life's  flaming  colors  and  no  more  feel  loss 
Of  things  that  once  a  warmer  radiance  bore. 
And  see,  like  frosty  meadows  through  clear  air, 
Dear  lands — forget  I  ever  suffered  there! 


64 


CUTTING  WEEDS 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old  he  cut  the  weeds 
Along  the  fences  where  the  cornfields  swayed 
In  hot,  slow-moving  winds  and,  working,  played 
His  scythe  was  turned  a  sword  for  mighty  deeds. 
He  felt  the  might  of  conflict;  met  his  needs 
For  great  adventures  with  the  thoughts  that  strayed 
Like  pageants  through  his  mind,  and  he  was  made 
The  hero  loved  of  ladies,  knights,  and  steeds. 

What  ill  winds  blew  that  mist  of  dreams  away?  .  . 
Grown  into  manhood  now  he  swings  his  blade 
With  dogged,  steady  strokes  along  the  fence. 
He  thinks,  perhaps,  of  gold  the  corn  will  pay — 
Is  restless,  vaguely  troubled,  half  afraid 
Of  wishes  haunting  him  with  imminence. 


65 


AN  APRIL  MOON 

Such  laughter  awakens,  in  the  leaves  to-night, 
As  stirs  like  music  in  a  heart  that  hears 
Despite  all  sounds  of  long-defeated  years. 
And  not  a  ghost  from  memory  has  might 
To  hush  one  leaf  or  dull  one  path  of  light 
In  this  revival  of  earth's  dream  that  nears 
Completion  in  reality  .  .  .  Appears 
The  ancient  wonder  that  is  still  our  right. 

What  branch  was  broken  in  the  wintry  blow? 
The  new  leaves  wave  their  banners  in  its  stead. 
What  flower-seeds  were  prisoned  by  a  stone? 
The  frail  stalks  lift  a  senseless  weight,  to  grow. 
And  here  vines  creep  to  one  tree  scarred  and  dead 
And  but  for  them  how  bare,  how  much  alone! 


66 


BEAUTY  IN  THE  RUINS 

A  beauty  speaks  from  ruins  of  old  walls, 

Once  high  and  beautiful,  in  some  design 

Yet  lifting  from  the  dust,  some  lovely  line 

Unbroken  where  a  flood  of  sunlight  falls. 

The  structural  splendors  past,  each  stone  recalls 

Some  glory  of  the  whole,  and  we  divine 

In  it  a  touch  of  mastery  where  twine 

The  vines  of  ivy  and  slow  shadow  crawls. 

Because  of  what  it  was  before  it  fell 

To  ruin  we  may  see  in  ruin  still 

A  certain  grandeur  long  in  balance  hung 

Above  the  dust,  and  come  to  know  how  well 

Romance  and  wonder  have  again  their  will 

When  some  old  men  begin,  "When  I  was  young!" 


67 


MOTHS  AND  LIGHTS 

What  puzzles  me,  regarding  moths  and  lights, 
Is  that  no  moth,  in  forests  threshed  or  stilled, 
Is  crushed  of  wing  or  by  insistence  killed 
For  seeking  starlight  in  the  lovely  nights, 
But  starts  toward  death  the  instant  that  it  sights 
A  lantern's  flame,  and  for  a  moment  thrilled 
Must  die  with  some  desire  unfulfilled, 
A  symbol  scorned  by  other  futile  flights. 

And  I  am  sad  for  things  that  cannot  choose 
Between  the  starlight  and  a  lantern's  flame, 
And  sad  for  choice  of  sorrows  as  they  are: 
To  gain  the  lantern's  flame  and  then  to  lose 
The  life  from  which  desire  for  it  came, 
To  seek  the  star — and  never  reach  the  star ! 


68 


THE  PROCESS 

I  know  a  slope-bound  valley  held  between 

Two  hillsides  in  a  semi-desert  land, 

And  rains,  that  seldom  come,  had  washed  the  sand 

Of  those  gray  hills  upon  the  bit  of  green 

The  valley  lifted  when  I  first  had  seen 

Its  wistfulness.     I  saw  its  grasses  stand 

Half-buried,  as  if  for  a  reprimand 

From  those  stern  slopes  where  weathered  boulders  lean. 

An  old  man  looked  upon  the  place  with  me. 

"First,  sand,"  he  said,  "is  washed  from  hills  like  these, 

Then  richer  stuff  goes  down  there  soon  or  late; 

Then  gulches  open  and  some  earth  will  be 

Washed  farther  on — but  all  the  finest  trees 

Grow  in  such  places,  though  it's  long  to  wait." 


69 


VIGNETTES  FROM  LIFE 


THE  FEEL  OF  SILK 

"At  last  I  have  it,"  whispered  Kate,  "at  last," 
And  spread  the  dark  blue  silk  upon  her  knees, 
Touched  it  with  loving  fingers  as  she  bowed 
Above  its  brightness  .  .  . 

From  another  room 
A  weak  voice  called  her  and  Kate  placed  the  silk 
Gently  upon  the  table  and  replied, 
"Coming,  my  dear." 

"What  is  it,  Jane?"  she  asked 
As  she  went  in  and  stood  beside  the  bed. 
"My  lungs  hurt,  Kate,"  then  coughing  shook  the  girl 
So  thin  and  white  upon  the  bed.     Blood  showed 
Upon  her  lips,  then  rushed  from  them,  and  Kate 
Ran  for  the  doctor,  sobbing  as  she  went. 

"This  is  the  third  in  three  days,  and  the  worst," 
The  doctor  said  when  he  had  come.     "Perhaps 
She  may  pull  through  this  time  .  .  .  Her  heart  is  weak 
She  may  not  last  till  morning." 

From  the  sleep 
In  which  Jane  fell  she  did  not  wake  again. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  Kate  had  brought  the  girl 
To  this  small  mountain  town,  and  Kate  had  taught 
The  school  and  worked  alone  with  hopefulness 
Upon  her  plain  face.     Just  a  month  before 
Jane  died  they  found  that  they  had  saved  enough 

73 


THE  FEEL  OF  SILK 

That  Kate  could  buy  a  new  dress. 

"Jane,"  she  cried, 
"I  love  the  feel  of  silk.     At  last  I'll  get 
A  silk  dress  and  if  you  don't  care  I'll  go 
To  Jason's  dance  next  month." 

Her  sister's  eyes 
Were  very  wistful,  but  she  said,  "Of  course 
You  must  go,  Kate.     You'll  look  so  fine  in  silk." 
And  later  on  she  said,  "If  Jason  King 
Could  see  you  dressed  right,  not  another  girl 
About  this  place  would  have  a  chance  with  him." 
And  Kate  had  laughed  .  .  .  "You  silly  child!"  she  said. 

Then  came  the  silk  dress — and  that  very  night 
Jane  died,  and  when  they  buried  her  the  few 
Who  came  remarked  how  pretty  she  had  been 
In  that  blue  silk  .  .  . 


74 


THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

Neither  a  woman  nor  a  man  long  poor 

And  humble,  used  to  taking  things  that  come, 

With  wealth  thrust  quickly  in  worn  hands,  can  pass 

Into  the  Kingdom  of  the  Rich — no  more 

Than  camels  can  pass  through  the  needle's  eye  .  .  . 

Josiah  had  been  told,  with  doubting  eyes, 
That  he  was  worth  a  million  dollars.     Then 
He  put  away  his  hammer  and  his  saw 
And  went  to  see  the  oil  well  on  his  land 
That  had  been  worthless  for  so  many  years 
Of  aching  toil,  and  with  him  went  his  wife 
In  bright  new  calico,  too  awed  to  speak. 

They  saw  the  source  of  this  strange  wealth  that  came 

From  ground  that  failed  to  give  good  crops,  but  still 

They  could  not  understand  all  that  it  meant  .  .  . 

Upon  the  way  home  through  the  heated  dust 

Josiah  told  his  wife  that  she  could  have 

What  she  had  wanted,  and  they  talked  about 

The  fine  hotel  that  they  would  build  in  town 

When  they  had  sold  the  plain  board  rooming-house 

That  for  a  year  had  driven  want  away, 

When  men  rushed  to  the  little  town  to  drill 

For  oil  .  .  . 

Now  in  that  little  town  it's  told 
How  old  Josiah  laid  his  tools  away 
75 


THE  NEEDLE'S  EYE 

And  took  no  care  for  odd  jobs  waiting  him, 
And  then  grew  restless  when  a  crew  of  men 
Began  to  build  his  fine  hotel — and  charmed 
With  wages  higher  than  his  dreams  had  known, 
He  went  to  work  upon  his  own  hotel 
For  day's  pay  and,  while  working  overtime 
For  further  profit,  died  .  .  . 

And  it  is  told 
How  his  old  wife,  with  eyes  that  hid  their  tears, 
When  the  hotel  was  finished  took  a  room 
That  was  the  cheapest,  and  kept  on  at  work 
About  the  place  in  utter  loneliness. 
With  only  one  extravagance  in  all 
The  years  she  lived :  Josiah's  picture  there, 
Enlarged  and  framed  in  gold,  beside  her  bed. 


76 


A  DEEPER  SPRING 

The  curtains  of  the  haze,  like  amethyst 

Long  faded  in  the  glare  of  sun,  were  hung 

On  all  sides  in  the  distance.     Two  men  moved 

Among  the  heat-waves  surging  low  across 

Pale  yellow  sands  ...  At  last  one  fell  and  clutched 

The  hot  sand,  while  the  other  turned  to  look 

And  sagged  there  like  a  half-filled  sack  of  grain 

Left  stand  alone.     He  helped  the  other  rise 

And  blood  came  from  the  movement  of  his  lips 

Burned  in  the  glare.     He  mumbled,  "There's  a  spring 

Among  the  rocks — before  us — half  a  mile." 

Again  they  stumbled  on  across  the  sands.  .  .  . 

Two  weeks  before  the  older  man,  it's  said, 
Had  boasted  of  a  worthless  mine  he  found 
To  sell  the  young  man  lately  from  the  East 
With  much  more  money  than  was  good  for  him. 
The  deal  half  closed,  they  started  out  to  see 
The  mine  that  huddled  in  a  nest  of  rocks 
Across  a  stretch  of  bad  lands,  and  prepared 
For  comfort  on  the  way.     Their  burro  train 
Was  loaded  well  with  food  and  water-bags. 
The  older  man  had  winked  before  he  left 
And  told  his  friends  he  took  along  a  drop 
To  help  his  scheme  .  .  . 

From  ridges  and  scrub  oaks 
Their  journey  led  them  down  upon  a  waste 

77 


A  DEEPER  SPRING 

Of  sand  where  cactus  grew  and  hot  winds  hurled 
Themselves  in  fevered  haste  across  the  flats. 
Then  came  the  sandstorm  snarling  in  the  dark. 
The  burros  lost,  the  two  men  started  out, 
When  winds  had  quieted,  to  find  a  spring. 

Now  slow  as  shadows  on  the  yellow  sands 

They  crept  to  that  low  ridge  of  rocks  that  held 

The  hope  of  water.     Nearly  dead  from  thirst 

They  crawled  about  when  they  had  reached  the  place. 

The  tepid  water  came  in  drops  between 

Rus.  colored  rocks. 

"There's  not  enough  for  one," 
The  older  man  was  mumbling,  "Drink  .  .  .  I'll  go 
To  find  a  deeper  spring." 

The  one  who  stayed 
To  drink  has  told  it  since  with  troubled  eyes. 


78 


NEW  WALLS 

Stooped  after  years  of  leaning  over  books 

Where  long  neat  columns  showed  another's  gain, 

And  with  the  look  of  some  old  ledger  piled 

Upon  a  shelf  for  future  reference, 

Old  John  went  shuffling  home  in  wistful  haste 

To  tell  his  wife  that  he  had  bought  the  land 

Where  they  would  build  their  cottage — out  beyond 

The  shadow  of  high  walls  .  .  .  And  they  could  build 

The  little  house  they  planned  and,  from  a  life 

Of  saving,  still  have  left  enough  to  keep 

Them  safe  if  he  could  work  a  few  more  years — 

And  now  he  was  but  sixty  years  of  age 

And  she  was  fifty  nine  .  .  . 

That  night  they  sat 
Upon  the  small  porch  of  their  rented  house 
Walled  in  by  higher  houses  that  shut  out 
The  view  and  kept  away  the  stir  of  breeze 
To  bless  a  sultry  night.     Said  John  to  her, 
"It  seems  we've  always  been  walled  in  .  .  .  Out  there 
We'll  have  the  open  and  a  bit  of  breeze." 
His  small  pale  wife  smiled,  wistful  as  a  child  .  .  . 

They  built  the  plain  white  cottage  on  the  lot 
Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  city's  walls, 
And  lived  in  it  a  year  before  again 
The  shadows  of  the  walls  fell  over  them. 
Upon  the  right  a  high  apartment  house 

79 


NEW  WALLS 

Shut  out  the  view  of  willows  by  a  stream. 

Said  John,  "We  still  can  see  the  green  fields  there 

Upon  our  left." 

The  old  ones  looked  and  sighed  .  .  . 
Another  month  and  on  the  left  grew  up 
A  great  stone  house.     The  city  had  begun 
To  spread,  in  earnest,  to  the  open  spot. 
Walled  in  on  both  sides  soon,  the  cottage  stood 
With  view  shut  off  and  breezes  turned  from  it. 
The  view  in  front  was  street  and  little  trees 
That  had  not  quite  decided  how  to  grow. 
The  bit  of  romance  that  the  open  gave 
The  little  place  was  gone  .  .  . 

Said  John   one  night, 
"I  feel  more  natural  now,  walled  in.     New  walls 
Have  found  us  here  .  .  .  Just  walls  and  walls  and  walls 
Since  I  remember!" 

And  he  would  have  wept 
But  that  he  knew  his  wife  would  weep  with  him. 


80 


GIFTS 

A  Poorhouse  is  just  that  and  little  more — 
And  people  in  glass  houses  would  forget 
Such  irritating  evidences  left 
Of  Man's  decline  and  fall,  but  such  a  place 
May  sometimes  house  some  beauty  of  its  own. 

In  Compton  on  a  hillside  stilled  with  snow 
Old  John,  so  deaf  he  heard  but  shouted  words, 
And  gray  old  Henry,  stone-blind,  lived  to  greet 
Another  Christmas  Eve,  and  in  a  room 
Old  John  was  reading  from  the  only  book 
He  had — a  tale  of  knights  and  ladies  fair, 
While  Henry  played  an  old  forgotten  tune 
On  his  mouth-organ  treasured  very  long — 
So  long  it  squeaked  with  age  in  many  keys. 

A  sour-faced  old  woman  passed  them  there 
And  snarled,  "A  Merry  Christmas." 

Henry  stopped 
His  tune  and  John  looked  up  but  did  not  hear. 

"What  say?"  said  John.     Then  Henry  shouted  out, 
"She  said  'A  Merry  Christmas,'  to  us,  John." 

And  for  awhile  the  old  men  said  no  more. 

They  had  been  close  friends  for  a  year,  and  now 
Each  thought  what  he  could  give  the  other  one. 
81 


GIFTS 

Thought  John,  "This  book  is  all  I  have  to  give. 
I'd  like  to  keep  it,  too.     It's  good  to  read." 
And  Henry  thought,  '"I've  not  a  gift  for  John 
But  this  mouth-organ,  and  I'd  miss  it  so." 

At  last  John  said,  "I  have  a  book  for  you, 
And,  Henry,  since  you  cannot  see  I'll  read 
Your  book  to  you  to-morrow.  That  is  all 
That  I,  can  give  you — since  I've  nothing  else." 

And  Henry  said,  "John,  all  I  have  to  give 

Is  this  mouth-organ  and  it's  old  as  sin, 

But  when  to-morrow  comes  I'll  play  it  close 

Beside  your  ear  so  you  can  catch  the  tune. 

I  know  you'll  like  it.  .  .  .  Let  me  feel  the  book." 

And  John  said,  "Henry,  play  a  bit — close  up." 

Next  day  the  old  men  had  a  merry  time 
Together  with  their  gifts — each  having  his 
And  that  he  gave  and  something  else  beside 
Although  they  could  not  put  it  into  words. 


82 


THE  CROW'S  NEST 

The  crow's  nest  is  not  built  to  please  the  wren. 
And  Luke's  rough  house  stood  high  upon  a  hill 
Where  pines  in  distance  were  like  bristling  hairs 
Upon  a  giant's  head  grown  nearly  bald. 
It  was  not  liked  by  Sarah  in  her  house 
So  small  and  trim  near  birches  where  the  lands 
Sloped  to  the  valley.     When  she  saw  the  hill 
Each  day  she  saw  Luke's  house  and  frowned  at  it 
And  said,  "It's  like  a  crow's  nest,"  to  herself.  .  .  . 
These  two  were  married  there  two  years  before 
And  parted — and  were  stubborn  as  the  hills. 

It  is  a  lonely  land  among  the  hills — 
The  crows  flew  over  and  the  circling  hawks 
And  stirred  the  place  as  unexpected  crowds 
May  rouse  a  country  store.  .  .  .  Luke  lived  alone 
With  his  great  dog,  because  his  folks  had  lived 
In  that  same  place  before  him,  tilled  the  land 
And  took  what  grew.     And  Sarah  lived  alone 
In  her  prim  house  because  her  folks  had  lived 
In  it  before  her.  .  .  .  Then  one  windy  night, 
For  all  her  stubborn  pride,  the  loneliness 
Was  more  than  she  could  bear.     She  would  not  go 
To  Luke  and  ask  forgiveness,  would  not  leave 
Her  house  for  his  without  a  good  excuse. 
So  desperate  was  her  love,  so  much  in  need, 
She  thought,  "I'll  burn  this  place.     No  other's  near 
He  cannot  turn  me  out  into  the  hills." 

83 


THE  CROW'S  NEST 

And  so  she  fired  the  house  she  loved — and  Luke 
Came  down  to  help  her  fight  the  flames.     No  house 
But  his  was  near,  and  so,  at  last,  they  went 
Into  the  crow's  nest.     Luke  pushed  back  a  door 
And  went  ahead  of  her.     He  kicked  aside 
A  pile  of  grass  and  rags  that  he  had  placed 
Along  a  wall,  and  Sarah  asked,  "What's  that?" 
He  growled,  "A  place  I  meant  the  dog  to  sleep." 
And  Sarah  laughed,  "That  grass  burns  fine.     I  know!" 
And  Luke,  though  shame-faced,  laughed  with  her  at  last, 
Although  she  said,  "We  might  have  had  the  sense 
To  keep  the  better  house  since  one's  enough ! " 


84 


LONGER  POEMS 


WILD  APPLES 
I 

The  frost,  still  heavy  on  the  lowlands,  won 
A  radiance  soon  melted  in  the  sun 
That  gave  it,  and  the  river  took  the  lost 
Quick  splendor  that  had  faded  with  the  frost. 
Then  Malcolm  looked  a  moment  as  in  doubt 
Across  the  river  and  the  fields  about 
Touched  with  the  glory  that  would  be  the  death 
Of  their  rich  season,  then  with  quicker  breath 
He  left  the  road  and  followed  down  a  lane 
Leading  to  uplands  bright  above  the  plain. 
His  free  stride  rustled  dead  leaves  as  he  went 
Along  the  hill-path  ...  To  him  came  the  scent 
Of  wild  grapes  heavy  with  their  sweetness  still 
Ungathered  in  the  brambles  on  the  hill 
Except  by  birds  in  flocks  that  now  and  then 
Arose  near  him  and  settled  down  again. 
In  one  place  opened  eastward  on  the  slope 
He  looked  far  back  and  saw  the  hazes  grope 
Above  the  city  he  had  left  behind, 
Like  ghosts  arising  from  a  troubled  mind. 
And  as  he  watched  he  thought  how  he  had  seen 
Long  columns  moving  while  shells  burst  between 
Scarred  ridges  and  the  stricken  woods,  how  smoke 
Thickened  and  thinned  and  thickened  there  to  choke 
Parched  throats  of  men,  and  all  seemed  near  him  still. 
Frowning,  he  turned  and  hastened  up  the  hill, 
And  on  its  crest  looked  down  with  eyes  half  blind 

87 


WILD  APPLES 

With  tears  upon  the  place  he  came  to  find  .  .  . 
Below  him  stood  the  cabin  in  the  trees. 
The  orchard,  sweet  with  its  old  mysteries 
Of  blooms  that  faded,  fruit  that  came  to  pass 
Ungathered  always  in  the  matted  grass, 
Now  greeted  him  with  but  one  definite  sound 
Of  ripened  apples  falling  to  the  ground. 

II 

The  moods  of  war,  a  feeling  of  defeat 
In  victory  has  sent  him  back  to  meet 
The  conquest  of  a  city  and  its  stress 
Of  endless  mimic  wars,  and  bitterness 
And  sense  of  some  great  nameless  loss  had  grown 
Until  he  felt  he  fought  the  world  alone 
For  something  that  could  never  quite  repay 
The  hopes  it  killed,  ihe  youth  it  took  away. 
And  Malcolm's  wife,  a  woman  made  of  stuff 
Of  strange  confusions,  did  not  care  enough 
For  more  than  superficial  things  to  give 
An  understanding  that  his  love  might  live. 
Her  early  gifts  on  careless  comers  spent, 
She  gave  her  later  gifts  of  discontent, 
And  he  grew  disillusioned  of  the  one 
Who  gave  so  little  and  so  soon  was  done  .  .  . 
First,  her  unbounded  youth  had  lit  the  fire 
Of  his  quick  love  and  passionate  desire, 
And,  seeing  then  in  her  no  other  thing 
To  love,  he  loved  that  near  to  worshiping 
As  was  his  nature  .  .  .  He  who  sought  a  mate 
Was  still  unmated,  hurt,  insatiate, 
Through  years  of  work  to  meet  a  definite  end 
For  dreams  that  lingered  with  him  to  befriend, 

88 


WILD  APPLES 

For  his  desires,  hoping  vainly  still 
To  shape  life  and  a  woman  to  his  will 
Of  beauty  and  true  art,  and  failing  that 
He  grew  less  lover  and  more  diplomat. 
His  wife,  resentful  that  he  grew  away 
From  her  while  she  was  with  him  day  by  day, 
As  some  tree  grows  in  sun  and  leaves  a  vine 
Still  at  its  trunk  and  lower  boughs  to  twine, 
Gave  up  the  arts  that  made  his  love  commence 
Its  conquest,  and  by  dull  indifference 
Defeated  her  own  ends,  and  soon  or  late 
Found  each  new  turn  a  new  doubt  could  create. 
Malcolm  at  last  sought  what  she  could  not  give 
And  sometimes  found  it,  but  he  came  to  live 
Between  a  sense  of  duties  and  desires, 
Torn  in  two  strifes  and  burned  between  two  fires, 
And,  overwrought  and  weary,  came  to  blame 
His  wife  more  than  for  causes  he  could  name. 
And  she  insisted  he  was  wrong,  she  right, 
Keeping  in  hateful  words  a  keen  delight. 

By  day  he  worked,  by  night  he  wrote  to  find 
If  life's  expression  eased  a  troubled  mind, 
And  saw  his  art  in  competition  win 
The  notice  virtue  gains  where  there  is  sin. 
And  still  at  night  his  wife  could  fill  a  need 
Of  his  much-hungered  heart,  and  strangely  freed 
From  strange  misgivings  and  the  old  unrest 
He  kissed  her  still  lips,  crushed  her  to  his  breast 
With  such  a  passion  as  would  leave  her  cold 
And  weary  later  like  a  woman  old — 
Then  he  would  sense  her  mood  and  turn  away 
Resenting  it,  with  nothing  more  to  say. 
And  so  it  was  when  War  cried  loud  for  men 

89 


WILD  APPLES 

He  gave  his  savings  of  hard  years  and  then 

Left  her  in  comfort  while  he  went,  half  glad, 

To  join  the  conflict  of  a  world  gone  mad  .  .  . 

The  moods  of  war,  a  feeling  of  defeat 

In  victory  had  sent  him  back  to  meet 

Vain  conquest  of  the  life,  again,  with  her 

To  whom  his  duty  bound  him  ...  In  the  blur 

Of  maddened  colors  Life  spread  out  for  him 

A  vast  that  sickened,  awed,  while  still  was  dim 

The  vision  that  he  followed — and  it  kept 

So  little  that  was  beautiful.     He  wept 

Alone  sometimes  while  in  another  room 

His  wife  was  sleeping  soundly  ...  In  the  gloom 

Another's   lips   seemed    near,    another's   hands 

Seemed  touching  him — one  loved  in  other  lands 

And  more  his  mate  than  one  who  held  him  still 

Against  his  love,  against  his  better  will. 

Between  a  sense  of  duties  and  desires, 

Torn  in  two  strifes  and  burned  between  two  fires, 

He  tossed  at  night  and  toiled  by  day  to  save 

Himself  and  one  who  took  and  nothing  gave. 

Ill 

One  night  he  dreamed  of  winds  in  orchard  trees, 
Of  fragrance  from  ripe  fruit,  and  sound  of  bees 
Among  the  grasses.     He  remembered  then 
A  place  he  left  and  had  not  seen  again 
Since  one  sweet  summer,  now  so  long  ago, 
He  tramped  the  uplands.     There  awoke  a  glow 
And  magic  in  all  things  he  visioned  there — 
Spun  bright  in  contrast  to  his  dull  despair. 
"I'll  go  to  find  that  place  again  and  rest," 
He  told  himself  .  .  .  Much  longer  than  he  guessed 

90 


WILD  APPLES 

The  habit  of  his  work  held  like  a  chain, 
Misgivings  walked  like  ghosts  and  hurt  his  brain 
And  heart  in  shadowed  places  where  his  wife 
Now  hurled  the  darts  of  her  embittered  life. 

Men  called  him  genius  and  she  called  him  fool 

Because  she  could  not  understand  the  rule 

Of  Life  in  him,  his  vision  of  the  whole 

Beyond  her  vision  of  a  little  soul 

In  things  that  groped  in  darkness.     But  she  made 

The  most  of  his  success  and  in  it  played 

A  part  of  splendor  while  he  paid  the  cost  .  .  . 

She  took  it  as  her  right  for  things  she  lost!   .  .  . 

Discouraged  past  endurance  he  could  see 
No  further  cause  for  bearing  misery 
Of  life  with  her  and  work  that  seemed  in  vain 
For  all  he  most  desired  to  attain, 
And  so  he  gave  her  most  he  wrung  from  years, 
No  more  held  back  by  blame  or  by  her  tears, 
And  left  her  to  her  own  devices  .  .  .  Then 
He  started  out  to  heal  his  heart  again 
In  that  old  orchard  place  a  grandsire  won 
From  woodland  years  ago  and  left  the  sun 
To  care  for  it  when  richer  ventures  led 
Away  from  it  .  .  .  Now  Malcolm  saw  the  red 
And  gold  of  ripened  fruit  upon  the  trees, 
And  from  the  crest  went  down  among  the  bees 
In  waving  grasses.     Smaller  trees  had  grown 
Beside  the  old  trees  left  so  long  alone. 
He  pulled  an  apple  from  a  bending  bough 
And  ate  of  it  .  .  .  There  was  a  tartness  now 
And  winey  richness  in  this  fruit  that  grew 
Smaller  and  brighter  than  the  fruit  he  knew 

91 


WILD  APPLES 

When  in  his  boyhood  there  he  ate  his  fill. 

"These  are  wild  apples  now,"  he  said  ...  A  still 

Strange  mood  came  over  him  as  all  around 

He  heard  the  apples  falling  to  the  ground, 

Visioned  the  changing  seasons  there,  the  range 

Of  growth  and  slow  decay  in  all  the  change. 

A  longing  came  to  find  a  woman  there 

With  sun-kissed  cheeks  and  fragrance  in  her  hair 

Like  ripe  wild  apples,  with  a  warmth  and  glow 

Upon  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes.     The  slow 

Soft  shadows  started  creeping  from  the  wood 

Beyond  the  orchard  land  while  Malcolm  stood 

In  thought  .  .  .  He  hastened  to  the  cabin  door 

And  opened  it  and  laid  aside  his  store 

Of  things  his  knapsack  held.     A  smell  of  mold 

Was  in  the  room  and,  feeling  worn  and  cold, 

He  gathered  wood  to  fill  the  fireplace, 

And  settled  back  with  warm  glow  on  his  face 

As  twigs  were  lighted.     Mice  crept  out  to  see 

And,  spell-bound,  sat  in  corners  silently. 

Late  in  the  night  while  Malcolm  read  beside 
The  fireplace  a  storm  came  up  and  cried 
Among  the  branches  and  the  leaves  were  blown 
About  the  cabin  and  chill  rains  were  thrown 
In  gusts  along  the  woodlands  .  .  .  Still  the  sound 
Of  ripened  apples  falling  to  the  ground 
Came  in  hushed  moments  of  the  storm.     He  tried 
To  read  for  comfort  .  .  .  Suddenly  outside 
He  heard  the  sound  of  running  feet  come  near. 
Some  one  had  reached  the  door  and  he  could  hear 
The  heavy  breathing  and  the  fumbling  hand  — 
And,  while  he  was  at  loss  to  understand 
A  presence  there,  he  opened  wide  the  door. 

92 


WILD  APPLES 

Chilled  winds  rushed  in  with  rain  across  the  floor, 

Blew  out  his  lantern's  light  and  left  the  place 

In  firelight — and  so  he  saw  her  face. 

Her  drenched  hair  hung  jet-black,  about  her  brow 

Like  white  blooms  touched  with  starlight  on  a  bough. 

Her  eyes  were  dark,  her  lips  were  full  and  red 

As  ripe  wild  apples,  and  she  raised  her  head 

And  looked  at  Malcolm  in  the  firelight, 

Smiling  a  little  even  in  her  fright. 

She  tried  to  rearrange  her  clinging  dress 

That  showed  the  lithe  curves  of  her  loveliness  .  .  . 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  Malcolm  said.     "I  guess 

You're  some  lost  angel  of  the  wilderness." 

"You're  kind,"  she  said.     Her  young  voice  held  the  tone 

Of  slender  trees  winds  will  not  leave  alone 

On  stormy  hillsides.     "But  the  truth  is  less 

Than  kindness,"  she  went  on.     A  bitterness 

Was  in  the  words  and  Malcolm  wondered  all 

That  troubled  her,  and  watched  the  rise  and  fall 

Of  her  full  breast  still  chilled  with  driven  rain. 

She  said,  "A  year  in  college  is  not  good 

For  one  whose  days  are  shadowed  in  the  wood, 

But  worse  for  one  in  empty  glare.     A  plain 

Is  past  this  hill-land,  and  I've  crept  away 

From  farms  sometimes  by  night,  sometimes  by  day 

And  wandering,  I  cared  not  where,  I  found 

This  old  deserted  orchard  with  its  sound 

Of  mysteries  and  bees,  and  lingered  here 

For  hours  to  dream  ...  To  me  the  place  is  dear — 

And  so  to-night  I  fled  to  it  to  save 

Myself  from  bondage  and  a  life  that  gave 

Only  despair." 

Said  Malcolm,  "Such  a  cause 
93 


WILD  APPLES 

Has  sent  me  here  before  you." 

In  the  pause 
That  followed  he  reached  out  his  arms.     She  went 
Half  shyly,  and  with  eyes  of  wonderment 
Looked  up  into  his  face,  then  pressed  the  warm 
Full  sweetness  of  her  lips  to  his  .  .  .  The  storm 
Howled  over  them  ...  A  beating  at  the  door 
Hurled  them  apart.     Then  she  went  as  before 
And  stood  beside  the  fireplace.     She  said, 
"He's  followed  me." 

And  then  she  bowed  her  head 
Upon  her  arms. 

"Who?"  whispered  Malcolm  then. 
"A  man  I  hate,"  she  answered  .  .  .  Came  again 
The  rain  of  blows  upon  the  door. 

"Who's  there?" 
Cried  Malcolm  standing  with  the  fading  glare 
Of  firelight  upon  his  clenched  hands. 

"Me 
That  has  a  right  to  be  here  where  I  be," 
A  loud  voice  answered.     "Open  this  here  lock 
(Again  the  panels  trembled  with  the  shock) 
And  leave  me  in." 

And  Malcolm  opened  wide 
The  door  and  met  the  rush  of  one  outside, 
Closing  the  door  behind  him  with  a  crash 
As  he  struck  out.     The  other  in  a  dash 
Of  fury  came  at  him,  and  Malcolm  sent 
Him  reeling  with  a  lucky  blow  that  went 
Straight  to  the  jaw.     The  heavy  form  then  sprawled 
In  mud  and  dead  leaves  and  with  effort  crawled 
On  hands  and  knees  a  moment  as  he  tried 
To  rise  again. 

"Damn  you,"  the  hoarse  voice  cried, 
94 


WILD  APPLES 

"I'll  kill  you  now." 

Said  Malcolm  standing  near 
With  fists  in  readiness  and  vision  clear, 
"Get  up  and  start.     I'm  waiting." 

And  the  man 
Lunged  up  at  him.     They  grappled  and  a  span 
Of  grass  and  mud  was  milled  by  heavy  feet. 
Panting,  they  struggled  grimly  in  the  beat 
Of  chilling  storm,  and  sweat  ran  with  the  rain 
Upon  their  faces  twisted  with  the  strain 
Of  their  tense  bodies  .  .  .  Malcolm  found  a  hold 
To  his  advantage  as  at  last  they  rolled 
Upon  the  sod,  with  tangled  legs.     He  drew 
The  other's  head  back  in  a  hold  he  knew 
In  college  days  and  heard  the  heavy  rasp 
Of  breath  .  .  .  The  form  grew  limp  then  in  his  grasp 
And  Malcolm  saw  the  man  had  fainted,  rose 
And,  breathing  hard,  scraped  mud  from  off  his  clothes. 
"Is  that  enough?"  he  asked  his  unknown  foe 
Who  stirred  about  at  last. 

"No,  damn  you,  no!" 
The  other  panted.     "I'll  go  home  and  get 
A  gun  fer  you." 

Said  Malcolm,  "Not  just  yet." 
And  madder  than  before  he  rained  his  blows 
Upon  that  stubborn  head,  that  fatted  nose 
And  swinish  cheek  that  rubbed  against  his  own 
While  they  had  grappled.     Heavy  as  a  stone 
The  head  fell  back  upon  the  sod  once  more 
And  Malcolm  dragged  the  man,  pushed  back  the  door 
And  took  him  in  and  bound  him  with  a  strap 
From  off  his  knapsack. 

"Now  then,  take  a  nap," 
He  growled,  and  turned  to  see  the  girl's  wide  eyes 

95 


WILD  APPLES 

Full  of  the  firelight  and  strangely  wise, 

Upon  him  as  she  huddled  by  the  fire. 

He  turned  to  her  with  quickened  wild  desire 

To  crush  her  lips  and  breast  to  him,  and  hold 

Her  captive  in  the  night  now  grown  so  old. 

She  did  not  shrink  from  him  as  he  went  near 

But  raised  her  arms  to  him  and  he  could  hear 

Her  quick  intake  of  breath,  half  sigh,  half  moan, 

As  his  hot  lips  were  pressed  upon  her  own. 

Forgetful  of  all  else  they  clung  there  so.  .  .  . 

The  dark  form  on  the  floor  threshed  to  and  fro 

For  freedom,  and  at  last  the  fire  died 

So  low  that  only  shadows  side  by  side 

Clung  past  his  reach,  beyond  his  woe  that  kept 

Its  vigil,  straining,  till,  worn  out,  he  wept. 

IV 

The  storm  had  passed.     The  dawn  came  through  the  trees 

With  rainbow-colors,  and  the  sound  of  bees 

Was  near  the  cabin.     Sunlight  crossed  the  floor 

From  one  wet  window.     Malcolm  stiff  and  sore 

From  fighting  stretched  his  aching  arms  and  woke. 

The  girl  beside  him  smiled.     The  bound  man  broke 

The  silence  then. 

"Unstrap  me  and  I'll  go," 
He  panted  out.  "I  didn't  have  no  show 
With  her  I  guess.     She's  wild  as  hell." 

"All  right," 
Said  Malcolm.     "Hope  you  had  a  pleasant  night. 
But  don't  come  back  .  .  .  Who  are  you,  anyway?" 
"What's  that  to  you?"  the  other  said. 

"I'll  say 
It  isn't  much,"  said  Malcolm  as  he  took 

96 


WILD  APPLES 

The  strap  from  off  the  other  with  a  look 

Of  loathing.     Then  the  other's  stiff  legs  stirred 

Out  of  the  door  ...  He  left  without  a  word. 

The  girl  came  up  to  Malcolm. 

"I'll  go,  too," 
She  said,  "I  am  not  good  enough  for  you. 
I  want  for  something  different  than  I  know 
But  might  not  keep  it  if  I  had  a  show. 
I  thought  it  out  last  night.     I'd  only  be 
More  trouble  for  you  .  .  .  He  has  only  me. 
I  pity  him  sometimes  .  .  .  I'd  better  go 
Before  I  change  my  mind.     I  love  you  so — 
But  you  would  like  me  just  a  little  while 
Like  these  wild  apples  here."     A  weary  smile 
Came  on  her  face  and,  running  from  the  door, 
She  followed  him  who  limped  away  before. 
And  Malcolm,  watching,  heard  no  more  the  sound 
Of  ripened  apples  falling  to  the  ground. 
All  fallen  in  the  storm  they  ended  there 
The  season's  offering  .  .  .  An  old  despair 
Came  over  Malcolm,  and  he  gathered  things 
Into  his  knapsack  .  .  . 

"Something  always  brings 
An  end  to  something  else,"  he  mumbled.     Then 
He  slammed  the  door  and  started  out  again 
Across  the  slopes.     He  saw  once  more  the  haze 
Above  the  city  and  he  thought  of  days 
So  long  to  haunt  him,  and  to  offer  still 
The  visions  sometimes  fashioned  to  his  will. 

"Life  is  not  well  defined,"  he  thought.     "It  goes 
In  crazy  circles  .  .  .  Beauty  like  the  rose 
Flashes  from  it.     Wild  apples  grow  and  fall 

97 


WILD  APPLES 

In  each  new  Eden  ...  I  would  taste  them  all — 
Forbidden  fruit.     For  I  have  heard  the  sound 
Of  ripened  apples  falling  to  the  ground.  .  .  ." 

Between  a  sense  of  duties  and  desires, 

Torn  in  two  strifes  and  burned  between  two  fires, 

He  hastened  back  to  Life  that  could  not  give 

Sure  answers  to  his  will  to  love  and  live, 

Keeping  a  sense  of  some  futility 

In  all  but  visions  that  his  eyes  might  see. 


98 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

(To  Mary) 

Carlos  was  old  as  Taboga  Town 

His  curio  shop  was  wearing  down 

In  winds  and  rains  that  for  ages  beat 

On  gray  stone  walls  that  touched  the  street, 

On  weathered  red  of  the  ancient  tile 

That  palm  leaves  touched,  perhaps,  for  awhile 

Before  the  palm  tree  grew  too  tall 

Trying  to  reach  the  stars  that  fall  .  .  . 

And  the  stars  fall  near  in  the  sleepy  town 

When  restless  Trades  their  songs  begin 

And  there's  only  the  sound  of  the  seas  come  in, 

And  whispers  of  one  brook  going  down 

To  meet  the  seas,  and  the  monotone 

Of  palm  trees  up  in  the  night  alone  .  .  . 

Carlos  said  trade  could  never  pay 
In  Taboga  Town,  and  he  slept  all  day 
And  talked  all  night  when  the  moon  was  bright 
If  only  a  stranger  cared  to  stay 
Listening  there  in  the  candlelight  .  .  . 
Elephants  carved  from  ivory, 
And  things  of  jade,  and  artistry 
In  ebony  were  in  the  case, 
And  a  smell  like  myrrh  was  in  the  place. 
And  a  serpent  skin  and  a  leopard  skin 
Hung  on  the  wall  in  a  gorgeous  span, 
99 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

Back  of  Carlos,  alert  and  thin, 

By  shawls  all  blossomy  with  Japan 

And  scarfs  where  golden  dragons  ran. 

And  a  pirate  cutlass  hung  beside 

An  Indian  shawl  meant  for  a  bride. 

An  image  of  Buddha,  shadowy  green, 

Stood  in  the  candlelight  between 

The  window  opened  toward  the  bay 

And  the  head  of  Carlos,  shadowy-gray  .  .  . 

The  folk  in  Taboga  had  said  to  me, 
"Carlos  is  mad  as  mad  can  be. 
With  heathen  idol  he  talks  at  night 
Of  pirate  ships  and  jungle-blight, 
And  living  here  a  useless  life, 
He  scorns  the  priest  and  has  no  wife. 
Even  a  stranger  here  can  see 
Carlos  is  mad  as  mad  can  be." 

Carlos  brought  wine  in  a  flagon  old 
And  from  its  mouth  ran  a  stream  of  gold 
Into  the  goblets  .  .  .  What  Carlos  said 
(Or  was  it  the  wine?)  went  to  my  head. 
And  was  it  his  voice  there,  after  all, 
Or  words  from  the  palm  tree  lonely  and  tall, 
Or  only  the  sound  of  the  seas  come  in, 
There  in  the  season  when  Trades  begin, 
Or  whispers  from  one  brook  going  down 
To  meet  the  seas  by  the  sleepy  town? 

Carlos  sighed,  then  he  said  to  me, 
"You  may  not  think  such  things  can  be  .  .  . 
I  am  not  the  man  that  here  you  know, 
And  one  you  see  not  lives  with  me  .  .  . 
100 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

A  life  I  lived  so  long  ago 

Is  clearer  than  dawn  that  comes  to  glow 

Upon  the  sea  ... 

There  is  a  fragrance  in  this  room? 

It  is  her  garments  stirred  in  gloom, 

It  is  her  hands  that  reach  to  me. 

"Once  I  was  king  on  a  pirate  ship 
In  the  Caribbees,  on  the  other  side 
Of  that  thread  of  land  a  Hand  let  slip 
From  looms  of  Chaos  flashing  wide. 
We  took  the  gold,  from  many  a  hold 
Of  galleons  bound  for  Spain, 
And  silver  bars  and  gems  like  stars 
For  which  some  men  were  slain. 
One  twilight,  oh,  so  long  ago, 
We  won  a  galleon  lumbering  slow 
In  the  shadow-seas,  and  there  I  found 
The  life  whose  circle  keeps  me  bound  . 
I  saw  her  eyes — the  stars  came  then 
As  they  shall  never  come  again. 
I  saw  her  hair — the  twilight  bore 
Beauty  that  I  shall  see  no  more. 
I  saw  her  breast — the  world  became 
Before  my  eyes  an  altar's  flame. 
I  saw  her  hands — my  heart  remains 
As  when  I  had  torn  off  her  chains  .  .  . 
She  was  an  Indian  princess,  won 
By  crime,  from  gardens  of  the  Sun. 
Beyond  her  walls  the  beasts  grew  still 
To  hear  her  voice  that  seemed  to  fill 
The  airs  with  music.     That  I  know  .  .  . 
Tigers  crouching  long  and  low 
101 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

In  the  grasses  could  not  stir 
Out  for  prey  when  near  to  her. 

"And  I  took  her,  let  my  men 
Take  their  treasures,  and  again 
Over  waters  starry-blue 
We  sailed  into  our  rendezvous, 
Miles  of  shouting  winds  away, 
Now  called  Porto  Bello  Bay. 
Not  a  word  that  I  could  know 
Did  my  Indian  princess  say — 
But  Love  sees  and  understands  .  .  . 
There  was  thanks  in  touch  of  hands, 
There  was  faith  in  eyes  that  grew 
Brave  and  let  her  love  shine  through 
At  last — so  very  long  ago, 
Yet  it  seems  as  just  to-day. 
She  was  free,  yet  bound  to  me 
Then  by  love,  but  far  away 
Olden  glories,  palace  rooms, 
Gave  her  longing  in  the  glooms. 
And  she  clung  when  I  would  go 
Seaward  for  a  golden  foe, 
Clung  and  wept  and  pointed  west, 
With  an  idol  from  her  breast 
Lifted  for  my  eyes  to  see. 
Then  my  pirates  turned  on  me, 
Took  the  ship,  and  sailed  away, 
Left  us  to  the  jungle-night, 
And  the  flaming  jungle-day, 
Left  us  there  with  suns  and  moons — 
And  my  belt  of  bright  doubloons! 
There  I  had  new  foes  to  fight: 
102 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

Crawling  vines  and  twisted  things, 
Much  that  grapples,  much  that  clings, 
Much  that  chokes  and  claws  and  stings. 

"Onward  to  the  shores,  but  guessed 
Through  the  jungle,  to  the  west 
We  made  progress  as  a  fly 
In  a  spider's  web,  and  why 
The  web  was  broken  who  can  say? 
We  struggled  on  and  found  the  way  .  .  . 
For  the  stings  the  jungle  gave 
It  gave  food  and  drink  to  save. 
Weary,  and  with  garments  torn 
Into  rags,  we  smiled  at  morn. 
With  our  flesh  pierced  there  with  spears 
Jungle-grown,  we  scorned  our  fears. 
Fever-dew  that  hung  in  damps 
Was  made  bright  by  firefly  lamps. 
Serpents  thick  as  jungle  trees 
Looked,  and  only  one  of  these 
Barred  our  way.     My  cutlass  fell 
On  the  coils  of  black  and  green 
That,  when  severed,  writhed  so  well 
Yards  of  jungle  were  worn  clean. 
Crimson  flower,  crystal  moon 
In  the  passionate  jungle's  June, 
And  the  heavy,  throbbing  rain — 
There  was  joy  and  there  was  pain. 
Over  fifty  miles  we  passed, 
Some  by  pathways,  pirate-made, 
Till,  upon  a  hill,  at  last 
We  saw  the  ocean's  blue  and  jade, 
And  Panama,  an  ancient  town, 
Dreaming  where  the  hill  sloped  down 
103 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

To  a  bay  where  sails  were  bright. 
Under  roof  we  slept  that  night, 
For  my  belt  filled  with  doubloons, 
Bright  as  early  jungle  moons, 
Bought  our  way — and  no  one  cared 
From  what  land  to  land  we  fared  .  . 
And  next  day  my  bright  doubloons 
Bought  my  princess  silks  the  moons 
Spun  for  her,  and  sandals  bright 
With  some  dreamer's  lost  delight. 
And  I  bought  her  rings  of  jade, 
Necklaces  of  sapphires  made. 
Then,  to  match  her  regal  air, 
Bought  myself  things  men  call  fair. 
Oh,  that  day  of  squandering 
When  I,  truly,  was  a  king! 

"But  no  kingdom  there  was  ours — 
That  old  town  with  flaming  flowers 
And  its  palms  against  the  skies, 
And  its  little  pomp  and  pride 
Fearing  jungle-blight  outside 
Was  not  ours  .  .  .  My  restless  eyes 
Saw  an  island  past  the  bay, 
But  a  few  bright  miles  away. 
Now  it's  called  Taboga  .  .  .  Here 
Grew  that  kingdom  for  my  dear. 
Here  there  grew  in  jungle-space 
Walls  of  beauty  and  of  grace 
And  a  garden  went  around. 
One  brook  made  a  lovely  sound 
Over  stones  as  smooth  as  glass. 
Long  I  toiled.     Inspired  hands 
Made  my  dream — How  quickly  pass 
104 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

Days  the  dreamer   understands! 
And,  as  if  the  beauty  known 
Was  too  much  for  two,  there  came, 
In  a  night  of  starry  flame 
Aching  with  my  darling's  moan, 
One — of  our  firm  flesh  and  bone, 
One — of  our  great  love  and  dream — 
Grew  and  laughed  and  in  the  stream 
After  golden  fishes  ran. 
Widened  circles  then  began  .  .  . 

"Three  years,  four,  (or  was  it  more?) 
Passed,  and  in  a  breathless  night 
Came  a  heaving  of  the  might 
In  great  shoulders  underground, 
And  our  island  writhed,  the  sea 
Heaved  and  tossed  in  agony. 
From  our  falling  walls  we  sped, 
Fell  upon  the  shaking  land, 
Three  of  us,  all  hand  in  hand  .  .  . 
Trees  crashed  down,  and  overhead 
Swords  of  lightning  slashed  the  sky. 
So  we  waited  there  to  die  .  .  . 
From  the  turmoil  rose  the  sea 
Like  a  wall,  and  up  the  beach 
Came  with  madness,  hungrily 
Took  all  things  within  its  reach — 
But  before  our  bodies  passed, 
Clinging  close  until  the  last, 
I  saw  a  great  white  ship  at  sea 
Sail  in  as  if  no  storm  could  be, 
And  Indian  music  drifted  far 
Above  its  mastlight  like  a  star  .  .  . 
I  saw  three  white  forms,  hers  and  mine 
105 


A  NIGHT  AT  TABOGA 

And  our  small  son's,  walk  on  the  brine — 
Out  to  that  ship! 

Our  mortal  hands 
Still  clung  together,  in  death,  on  the  sands  .  .  .* 

The  voice  of  Carlos  did  I  hear? 

The  candlelight  grew  strangely  clear  .  .  . 

It  hurt  my  eyes  and  I  stumbled  down 

From  the  haunted  room  to  the  haunted  town. 

And  as  I  walked  the  street  by  the  sea, 

What  soft  footsteps  passed  so  near? 

What  thrilled  whispers  came  to  me? 


106 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  STARS 
I 

The  walls  that  once  protected  me 
Turned  prison  walls  when  I  would  see 
Beyond  them,  and  when  I  had  seen 
Something  was  not  as  it  had  seemed  .  .  . 
My  years  were  marked  with  walls  between 
The  things  I  knew  and  things  I  dreamed. 
And  I  shall  never  quite  forget 
The  first  wall  where  my  feet  were  set 
That  I  might  look  on  something  new. 
It  was  a  garden  wall  where  grew 
The  vines  that  climbed  to  give  their  bloom 
A  vantage  ground  to  spread  perfume. 
And  then  at  last  I  found  a  way 
To  climb  the  wall.     I  watched  the  play 
Of  sunlight  over  it,  and  thought 
How  long  my  childish  dreams  had  spent 
My  efforts  there,  that  came  to  naught, 
To  see  forbidden  wonderment. 
And  I  was  sure  that  on  the  side 
I  had  not  seen,  the  lawns  were  wide 
And  peacocks  strutted  in  the  sun 
And  fairies  danced  when  day  was  done. 
And  then,  at  last,  I  climbed  and  there, 
Beyond  the  wall,  was  nothing  fair 
As  I  had  dreamed.     There  was  no  sound 
Except  the  murmurings  of  bees. 
107 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  STARS 

An  old  man  walking  through  the  trees, 
With  bowed  head,  did  not  look  around. 
With  vague  distrust  and  hurt  surprise 
I  left  the  wall  to  play  a  game 
That  lost  its  gladness,  and  my  eyes 
Could  never  see  the  wall  the  same 
As  it  had  been  when  wonder-wide 
They  looked — and  lost  the  other  side! 

II 

The  wall  of  green  slopes,  in  a  spring 
When  first  I  learned  how  birds  could  sing, 
Next  barred  me  from  something  I  sought. 
And  I  grew  troubled  then  with  thought — 
Saw  violets  creep  through  the  wall, 
Saw  earth-things  great  and  earth-things  small 
Creep  through  where  fingers  of  the  rain 
Had  stirred  the  dust  to  life  again. 
I  felt  the  green  slopes  were  a  wall 
Behind  which  worked  in  wonderment 
The  forces  that  I  could  not  call 
By  any  name,  and  discontent 
With  what  I  knew  of  things  so  fair 
Came  to  me,  as  in  watching  there, 
I  saw  stones  moved  aside  by  things 
So  frail  it  seemed  they  could  not  hold 
More  force  than  any  moth's  white  wings. 
And  so  the  tale  of  spring  was  told 
Upon  the  slopes,  and  summer  came 
With  fuller  passion,  brighter  flame, 
And  all  things  found  completion,  fed 
Behind  the  wall,  whereon  my  head 
Had  rested,  while  I  heard  in  trees 
108 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  STARS 

The  talk  of  winds  and  under  these 
Whispers  that  came  incessantly, 
As  if  the  wall  would  speak  to  me 
And  I  could  never  understand. 
Then  autumn  came  upon  the  land 
And  scattered  on  the  wall  the  bloom 
And  leaf,  and  in  the  restless  gloom 
All  lovely  things  crept  back  again 
Into  the  wall  ...  In  chilling  rain 
I  walked  the  slopes  grown  gray  and  bare 
And  olden  sadness  in  the  air 
Crept  into  me.     I  could  not  name 
The  sadness,  yet  a  sadness  came. 
The  dust  of  things  that  made  me  be 
Marked  seasons  of  the  earth  in  me! 
And  still  I  could  not  join  the  things 
That  crept  into  the  wall,  till  death 
Should  still  the  eagerness  of  breath 
And  take  the  olden  sense  of  wings 
And  weights  from  me,  then  not  again 
Could  I  creep  out  to  sun  or  rain  .  .  . 
The  earth-wall  had,  for  me,  one  side — 
One  while  I  lived,  one  when  I  died ! 

in 

The  gray  walls  housing  learning  rose 
Before  me,  and  the  doors  were  wide — 
And  strange  fear  came  that  they  might  close 
And  keep  me  in  a  world  outside 
While  others  entered  there  to  find 
What  golden  ages  left  behind  .  .  . 
And  when  I  entered  there  it  seemed 
I  went  to  hear  from  men  who  dreamed 
109 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  STARS 

And  sent  their  dreams  in  words  of  fire 

To  hearts'  awakening  desire. 

I  saw  worn  eyes  that  looked  on  youth — 

Puzzled  with  life,  men  talked  of  truth! 

I  knew  some  souls  in  travail  there 

Preached  brave  desire  from  despair, 

And  all  who  taught,  by  any  rule, 

Had  yet  their  own  desires  to  school. 

And  some  who  listened  caught  the  flame 

Of  urges  that  they  could  not  name, 

And  some  who  did  not  hear  a  word 

To  half-unguessed  vibrations  stirred. 

Men  told  me  what  had  been,  not  why, 

They  gave  me  laws  of  earth  and  sky 

And  atoms  free,  in  endless  strife — 

All  that  begins  and  ends  in  life 

That  moved  like  thunder  through  my  dreams. 

And  then  life  called  to  me,  it  seems, 

Above  all  sounds,  and  growing  less 

Wise  voices  thinned  to  nothingness, 

And  turning  from  vain  lore  and  pride 

I  left  those  walls — for  walls  outside! 

IV 

The  dust-stained  walls  the  city  kept 
Behind  me  did  not  open  soon. 
I  came  to  disregard  the  moon. 
Mad  nights  the  olden  dreams  had  slept. 
I  found  a  world  that  seemed  to  care 
Only  for  things  that  one  may  wear 
Or  store  in  places  walled  with  stone. 
And  so  I  lived  a  life  alone 
With  life,  and  many  dreams  I  sold 
110 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  STARS 

For  gold — and  men  were  mad  for  gold! 

Men  hated  men,  not  that  one  knew 

More  ways  to  gladness  or  could  do 

Some  miracle  no  bank  could  hold, 

But  that  there  was  a  store  of  gold; 

And  women  hated,  with  a  smile, 

For  what  gold  bought;  and  afterwhile 

I  fought  with  others  for  the  thing 

I  saw  the  city  worshiping. 

That  was  a  first  impression  .  .  .  Then 

I  saw  the  hungry  dreams  of  men 

And  women  squandering  their  gold 

To  keep  their  hearts  from  growing  old. 

And,  afterwhile,  I  saw  it  all — 

The  hearts  that  faced  some  lofty  wall, 

The  rich,  the  poor,  forever  one 

Facing  the  walls  till  life  was  done. 

And,  as  I  left  the  city's  walls? 

For  land  where  fresher  sunlight  falls, 

I  found  a  tiller  of  the  soil, 

With  sweets  of  earth  to  breath  at  toil, 

Cursing  his  fate  and  all  his  gods 

That  hid  his  wealth  among  the  clods  .  .  . 

Over  his  wall  his  dreams  had  told 

Of  vaster  harvests  turned  to  gold! 


Somehow,  I  felt  that  there  would  be 
More  glory  in  the  victory! 
The  walls  of  mangled  earth  are  there 
Before  me!     In  the  poisoned  air 
The  shells  scream  as  they  carry  death. 
The  fitful  wind  brings  up  a  breath 
111 


THE  WALL  OF  THE  STARS 

Of  rotting  pools  where  blood  has  dried. 

The  shattered  trees  long  since  have  died, 

And  homes  are  splinters  for  the  wind. 

For  miles  ahead  and  miles  behind 

Are  wastes  of  mud,  and  hills  torn  deep 

With  steel,  and  wounded  woods  that  heap 

Their  losses  up  in  twisted  piles. 

Death  plods  ahead  for  tortured  miles — 

And  through  it  all  I  lived  to  face 

The  mangled  earth  another  place, 

Then  climbed  that  wall,  and  with  the  rest 

Advanced,  and  when  the  fight  was  won 

The  misted  rays  of  setting  sun, 

Along  the  red  rim  of  the  west, 

Showed  still  another  wall  ahead 

Grotesque  with  sprawled  shapes  of  the  dead 

Somehow,  I  felt  that  I  would  see 

More  glory  in  the  victory! 

VI 

And  then — when  I  had  looked  across 
A  wall  of  mountains  to  the  sea 
I  lost  myself,  and  felt  no  loss 
A  moment  with  immensity  .  .  . 
And  then  my  vision  cleared  to  see 
Vast  waters,  past  all  harbor  bars, 
Break  on  the  last  wall  of  the  stars! 


112 


THE  THREE  DAYS 

No  matter  if  the  sun  is  bright 
Or  if  the  rain  that  came  at  night 
Still  falls  at  morning,  I  arise 
From  sleep  and  hardly  see  the  skies 
Through  windows,  for  I  wake  intent 
On  things  that  I  must  do  and  things 
That  I  have  done  or  hope  to  do  .  .  . 
I  feel,  sometimes,  the  lift  of  wings, 
Sometimes  the  drag  of  chains,  as  you 
Have  felt,  perhaps,  and  to  the  day 
I  gc>  in  much  the  same  old  way 
As  I  have  gone  before,  to  meet 
Adventure — victory  or  defeat. 
And  for  each  day  that  comes  to  me, 
With  sun  or  rain,  I  live  in  three — 
In  yesterday  I  live  to  gain 
Wisdom  to  shun  what  caused  me  pain, 
To  seek  what  caused  me  joy,  and  then 
See  if  it  may  give  joy  again. 
And  in  to-day  I  live  to  do 
Things  that  I  must  and  just  a  few 
Things  that  I  love,  perhaps  as  you! 
And  in  to-morrow,  0  I  live 
For  all  that  dreams  and  life  may  give — 
Or  take  away — Or  take  away? 
Then. is  to-morrow  as  to-day? 
And  are  the  days  in  circle  cast?   .  .  . 
Perhaps  that's  so,  perhaps  that's  why 
113 


THE  THREE  DAYS 

When  time  is  slow  and  dreams  delay 
Beside  the  spring  till  it  runs  dry, 
Some  hearts  creep  back  to  yesterday 
To  live  the  only  joy  they  found 
In  the  pattern  hard  and  round  .  .  . 
Perhaps  that's  why  some  hearts  that  came 
From  nowhere  yesterday  must  claim 
To-day  alone,  with  the  exclusion 
Of  to-morrow,  a  delusion  .  .  . 

In  the  circle,  round  by  round, 
Laughter  echoes,  and  the  sound 
Of  all  sorrows  near  and  far; 
Comes  the  roar  and  wail  of  war, 
Comes  the  voice  of  love,  and  strife, 
Wail  of  infants  finding  life, 
Come  the  sound  of  bits  of  gold, 
Cries  for  all  things  bought  and  sold, 
Comes  the  singing  voice  of  dream, 
Noise  of  wheels  and  hiss  of  steam, 
Comes  the  last  quick  gasp  of  breath 
At  the  old  surprise  of  death, 
Comes  the  whisper  of  the  leaves 
Growing,  falling,  while  there  weaves, 
Through  the  pattern  green  and  gray, 
Wind  that  speaks  and  sighs  away  .  .  . 
Where  the  circling  ages  pass, 
Where  the  new  age  dreams  to  be, 
Come  the  whispers  of  the  grass, 
Come  the  voices  of  the  sea  .  .  . 
In  some  yesterday  I  came 
From  the  flesh  that  felt  the  flame 
Of  my  waking,  ached  with  pain 
For  the  world  I  was  to  gain, 
•    114 


THE  THREE  DAYS 

Loved  me,  feeling  then  in  me 

A  blood-bond's  immortality  .  .  . 

The  flesh  is  made  by  God  as  much 

As  any  white  wood  of  a  tree! 

I  love  that  flesh  that  had  the  touch 

Of  sun  ...  I  love  my  body,  much 

The  same  as  other  mortal  forms — 

In  it  the  moonlight  gropes  and  fills 

Strange  places,  and  the  sudden  storms 

Come  in  from  oceans  and  from  hills, 

Come  voices  that  I  seem  to  know 

And  had  forgotten  long  ago, 

Come  voices  that  I,  had  not  known 

Yet  feel  somehow  they  are  my  own, 

Come  lives  in  which  I  had  no  part 

Until  they  echoed  in  my  heart, 

Comes  love,  and  yearning,  and  the  sense 

Of  things  about,  and  imminence 

Of  things  I  may  not  touch  or  see  .  .  . 

In  each  day  now  I  live  in  three! 

I  know  the  language  of  my  kind — 
Words  from  the  heart,  words  from  the  mind. 
These  words  give  everything  to  me — 
From  violets  to  immensity  .  .  . 

I  know  the  language  of  a  stream 
And  the  voices  of  a  tree, 
Of  the  half-articulate  sea 
Mumbling  always  at  its  dream. 
They  are  overheard  by  me, 
Talking  things  of  mystery 
And  of  beauty  and  delight. 
Often  in  the  crooning  night, 
115 


THE  THREE  DAYS 

Sitting  lonely  near  the  sky 
I  have  spoken.     No  reply 
Came  for  me  .  .  .  Forever  pass 
Voices,  and  the  whispering  grass 
Speaks  of  things  indifferently — 
Temples  fallen,  dust  to  be, 
Bodies  stilled  for  all  their  trust, 
King  and  wise  man  in  the  dust, 
Harlot,  virgin  in  the  ground, 
Thief  and  dreamer  wrapped  from  sound 
Through  their  dust  the  roots  of  things 
Grope  and  feed  something  that  sings — 
Leaf  or  grass — and  naught  is  said 
If  the  flesh  be  comforted. 

Dust,  indifferent  and  cold 

To  the  touch  of  mortal  hands, 

But  delusion  understands 

Any  rapture  you  may  hold 

For  the  body  that  must  pass. 

You  are  kind  to  bloom  and  grass, 

You  are  mother  to  the  tree — 

You  will  be  a  grave  for  me! 

Only  coward,  fool  or  knave 

Touched  with  virtue  calls  the  grave 

By  such  names  as  I  would  speak 

To  my  love  when  on  her  cheek 

Warm  blood  gives  the  flesh  a  bloom 

For  my  kisses  ...  In  the  tomb 

Who  would  bless  the  earth's  perfume? 

While  I  live  I'll  love  the  thing 
Called  the  flesh,  and  flowering 
Of  the  flesh  that  may  be  soul 
116 


THE  THREE  DAYS 

Or  be  dream  that  will  not  pass 
Where  the  empty  seasons  roll — 
While  men  move  above  the  grass  .  .  . 
From  the  flesh  may  come  to  be 
Beauty's  immortality 
In  a  new  life  or  a  song 
That  a  season  sends  along 
With  the  new  leaves  for  a  tree. 

Dust,  indifferent  and  cold, 
Take  me — spent  of  dreams  and  old — 
As  you  will,  but  I  shall  be 
Indifferent  and  cold  as  you, 
Chilled  in  silence  through  and  through 
I  shall  not  be  in  love  with  you! 
While  the  roots  of  grass  and  tree 
Shall  grope  down  and  take  from  me 
Something  for  the  things  that  sing, 
Something  for  thinrrs  whispering, 
In  the  winds  above  the  ground — 
In  the  circle,  round  by  round! 


117 


